


you were trouble by design

by landiskilgore



Series: for whom the bell tolls [2]
Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Bell's got issues, Bell's gotta figure things out, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Eventual Relationships, Flashbacks, Forgive Me, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury Recovery, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Multi, Other, Poor Girl, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Sort Of, Tags May Change, everything is blue this time, my hand slipped and made this fic, slowburn-ish, title is from a cage the elephant song
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29057541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/landiskilgore/pseuds/landiskilgore
Summary: "From the moment I first saw you, I was yours and you were mine; deep down we both knew you were trouble by design."- Cage the Elephant, "Too Late to Say Goodbye".ORBell's got demons that won't go away.
Relationships: Russell Adler & Bell, Vikhor "Stitch" Kuzmin & Bell
Series: for whom the bell tolls [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2128773
Comments: 9
Kudos: 28





	1. the price for imagination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> didn’t think i’d put out my first chapter so soon, but i surprise myself sometimes. be aware that going into this story, it will not be a happy one, and not very romance-centric (at least not yet oop) so the tags may change, but i played it safe and gave it a higher rating than my previous two stories. 
> 
> this chapter was meant to be a brief insight to bell’s injury recovery, but i went with something very different (i’ll stick to my outlines from now on i swear lmao)
> 
> anyways enough of my ranting, i hope you enjoy this chapter and as always, let me know your thoughts in the comments :)

**_the evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones._ \- William Shakespeare.**

***bell's lost her way, furiously struggling to be free.***

* * *

**Murmansk, near the Barents Sea, USSR - April 4th, 1981**

_“It's fear, Jack. The man deals with a huge amount of fear._ _**Because he got hurt?** _ _No, not entirely. Fear comes with imagination, it's a penalty, it's the price of imagination."—_

"—Stop reading aloud. You are distracting me."

Easier said than done. He's not the one having to endure the bitter, god-awful sensation of stitches being removed. Doesn't hurt, no, it's not her first time dealing with stitches (and most certainly won't be her last), it just feels... strange. She'll never fully grow accustomed to the sensations, the light pull and tug of the instrument, pulling her sutures out with minimal struggle. At least her voice is improving, compared to last time.

Three weeks ago, she took two bullets—one to the heart, one to the throat.

Three weeks ago, she should've been dead on a rock off the coast of Solovetsky.

Her time had passed, but Fate isn't finished with her yet. It waits beneath her skin, like an infection waiting to fester, and patience runs thinner than blood. Never one to feel predisposed to silly ideas like fate and romance—hell, that's why she's still reading Harris' novel after the old man had completed it a week prior. Fate has made its home within her sinews, pulling her apart at the seams with each breath she takes.

It's a tough pill to swallow, having to reconcile the fact that death hasn't taken its due yet, when it most certainly should've for all intents and purposes. Now all she's got left is a Harris novel and _time. Time_ to sit around, waiting for a sign that her life is meant for something else, bigger than the CIA or the KBG or the old man tending her wounds.

"We will depart for Kem tomorrow morning," the old man announces suddenly, pulling out her last suture and keeping mum on her immediate wince. "We cannot stay in one place very long anymore. People will come searching eventually."

"We?"

"My obligations to you do not end at a railroad track, my dear." Standing up, taking the bowl of wiry sutures and bloodied bandages—completely unrelated to her stitched arm, an injury to her cheek after slipping on a rock while fishing, something the old man still takes jabs at days later—towards the fireplace, tossing it into the amber flames. "I must stay with you until I am delegated elsewhere."

Kem is a beautiful little port, just near the coast of Solovetsky, which sounds off _many_ alarms in her mind, wondering what good is to come of staying within Russia when she's an enemy of the nation, constantly having to look over her shoulder in fear of death returning for its claim on her soul, whether it be at the hands of an American or a Soviet.

No point in ruling them both out, weeks after the final blow that destroyed Perseus, left their plans to rot with what's left of the monastery.

"Odd," she notes, buttoning up her grey shirt, keeping her left hand on her lap considering its uselessness (courtesy of her would-be killer, having crushed it under his boot during their final struggle, leaving it nigh _impossible_ to use anymore). "We are going south. What's of importance down south that we can't find here?"

"I don't need to remind you of _who_ that could be, my dear," he replies, preoccupied with his regularly-scheduled smoking break, digging around for his silver pipe.

_Oh. That's who. The masked man with unusual eyes._

Another oddity, she realizes, that the two men who put their lives on the line to save hers have yet to reveal their true intentions, much less their names. It irks her, a clawing and burning curiosity she can't bring herself to bury just yet. It's like their names are always on the tip of her tongue, in hazy recollections of memories that are slowly, surely, returning with each passing week—but never quite there. And she's too preoccupied with showing gratitude that _asking them_ is out of the question.

So, _he's_ going to meet with them south, but not at Kem. Kem is a stepping stone, a path leading towards the greater picture. Fair enough.

" _Nyet,_ give me your shirt. You cannot have labels," the old man snaps, pipe between his teeth, motioning towards her shirt.

"I'm perfectly capable of removing it myself," she insists, although not as authoritative as she hoped it'd sound. "It's my one good shirt."

"Negotiating will not do you much good. Give it to me. I do better than you."

 _Absurdly wrong and horribly untrue._ Not in a mood to make stupid remarks or refuse, she gives him the shirt (leaving her in this stupid white top that she's been wearing ever since the old man gave her out-of-bed privileges, despite his caution over the possibility of someone discovering her out on her bi-nightly walks), not before muttering a low, "rude," under her breath, to which he snorts a laugh and sets to work on de-labeling.

Biding her time... reading the same line over and over until it's muscle memory, easily recallable at a moment's notice.

_Fear comes with imagination. A penalty, the price of imagination._

As if imagination is a tangible thing, to be bought and paid for like a pack of Marlboro Reds or a Fleetwood Mac vinyl—both of which she's never bought before, but wishes she had.

_Penalty. Punishment imposed for breaking a law, rule or contract._

Fear itself as a punishment is a concept lost on her, something she wants to understand but isn't in the mindframe of a writer like Harris. Harris, who seemingly understands the penalty for imagination, who could've experienced it personally in order for it to influence his work. Nonsense, really. It's a novel about a cannibalistic serial killer, who cons his way into an investigation surrounding his own murders. Title itself is biblical in nature, referencing either the Great Book or the painting. Not too much thought is necessary...

At what point does boredom transcend into obsessive behavior? No doubt, she's well beyond that point, eyes flickering between the line and the old man, who is currently packing up what remains of the cabin into three bags—which isn't much, mind you.

"Who are you?"

Her question doesn't startle him, but it stalls his movements, albeit for moments until he resumes packing.

"You're a strange man," she whispers, letting the book slip between her fingers, settling into her lap with a soft thud, "I know nothing about you, nor the masked man, and yet... you're both _extremely_ insistent on keeping me alive. Someone who serves no greater purpose, someone whose dues with death are largely beyond extenuating at this point. Why are you so dedicated to a cause that no longer exists?"

Quietness, with the sounds of distant waves and heavy rainfall against the window being the only audible things between the two. Curiosity festers, not as infectious as she previously believed, but still quite distracting. And with it, comes an anxiety-addled sensation that serves no purpose other than to rattle her.

Until he _laughs._ Not with condescension or disbelief. No, it's comical, almost reveling in it like she is the world's greatest comedian, and he is her audience. A full-on belly laugh.

"Oh, my dear." Turning to her, voice so deadpan it startles her, seeing how it juxtaposes against his chortling bellows of laughter. "If you truly believe that purpose is beyond you... that there is no cause worth fighting... you haven't been paying attention."

His answer, so straightforward and narrower than the English Channel, utterly _confuses_ her.

Every war has its cause. And every soldier fights for said cause, on both sides. If there is no present cause, nothing but a _walking corpse_ from a little Soviet island that doesn't remember a goddamn thing (aside from what little memories of her past life remains intact; Anya, being the most prevalent one thus far) of a life before **_needles_** and _**Perseus**_ and _**Vietnam...**_ before _**him.**_ A man whose name she can't bear to reminisce, too cowardly and weak—

_You haven't been paying attention._

Nothing is ever worth paying attention to, it seems. It's as if she's purposely been left to her own devices, waiting until mania sets in and the gun that the old man hides beneath his mattress _furiously tempts_ her to finish what Fate didn't have the gall to do itself.

So what is there to pay attention to? Grey storm clouds and crashing waves and Thomas Harris novels?

 _Perhaps I need a new hobby_ , she thinks.

"I want you well-rested," the old man says, as if quietly acknowledging her inner thoughts without verbal confirmation. "I will handle the rest of the packing, and you must be prepared once time arrives. Do not sleep on your side, or you will tear stitches in your throat."

As if he doesn't remind her every-goddamn-night.

Confusion keeps her awake an hour past her usual resting time, no doubt something the old man will scold her for come morning. Waiting, wondering, just what was she supposed to be paying attention to? A thousand thoughts circling around her frontal cortex, searching for possibilities, endless possibilities at her behest. Faint sounds of rustling clothes and drawers being flung open certainly aren't helping her chances of falling asleep.

Connecting the dots, what little there are (and all of them are just silly little ideas, ironic considering her intense dislike of silly little ideas like fate and romance and stupidity), and suddenly the old man doesn't feel so strange anymore.

He reminds her of Hudson. Cryptic, straightforward. _Always one step ahead_...

She'd rather not think of what else he reminds her of, or why Hudson comes to mind. Not when she still doesn't know his name.

_Perhaps she'll ask in the morning._

* * *

**\- one day later -**

_When the old man said morning, she was hoping he meant late morning._

Give her time for a morning walk, stop by the Barents Sea one last time. No, he had her awake (mind still completely fried with exhaustion) at **1 AM** , well beyond her expectation of a morning wake-up call. Within minutes, the cabin became ash, another memory laid to rest as the old man set it aflame, taking the car off towards the road. He considered it too dangerous to stay on for the duration, so they stopped at an intermission point, a middle-ground of sorts.

Poyakonda is beautiful, even if she's not particular to the cold, biting mandible of winter. She knows they're not going to be here for longer than two hours, so she makes time.

Time to explore (within reason, of course—anything to keep the old man from having an early heart attack), perhaps grab a bite of something _edible_ , for once. Meeting with the old man after buying coffee and a delectable treat ( _Bliny_ , as she's been informed) from a street vendor, they make way towards the train station, selling the car for cash.

Sitting across from each other in silence, forestry and icy waters all that's in sight for miles to come. Biding her time with her novel for the next three hours, even if she's not truly making any progress, just skimming through repeated lines and favored scenes. Kem is an hour drive from this distance, according to the old man.

At the point she's reached, Dolarhyde succumbs to inevitable feelings of love for his blind co-worker, keeping his homicidal urges at bay. Finger skimming across a red spine, juxtaposed by the blue hue of the skies this morning, somber in the wake of the inevitable storm that's sure to follow. Old man with his silver pipe in his mouth, glasses perched across his nose as he buries it within a book of his own— _the Bluest Eye._

He's not truly reading, no. Too guarded, so caught up with his surroundings that he can't help but to _glance around_ , even if it's not as subtle as he presumes. It's painstakingly obvious, but it's nice to be the relaxed one sometimes, so she doesn't mind.

Until—

"I'll be right back," she says, leaving her book next to her bag as she searches for the nearest restroom, "I won't be long."

"Do not speak to anyone while you are gone," he warns, ignoring her eye-roll, nose still buried in his book.

Minimizing herself within the aisle, feet fast on the ground and eyes scanning everywhere. Despite how she regards the old man, she's not stupid enough to relegate herself to distraction, even while on a bathroom break. Luckily for her, nobody seems to be in the stalls, which puts her slightly at ease.

Slightly.

She's in here all of five minutes until the door opens, a pair of heels clicking loudly against the floor. Heartbeat begins to quicken, compulsory, beyond her control. Gently lifting her feet above the floor, crouching atop the toilet seat with an eye peering between the crack of the stall. A woman, with blonde hair tied up and her back facing the stall, can't make out her face until she turns around. She's... washing her hands.

Wouldn't be too concerning if red water wasn't running down the drain while she's at it.

There's no jumping to conclusions when you're on the run for your life. It's either dangerous or it isn't, and there's not much of the latter nowadays.

Like a pin drop, the water stops running. Yet, the woman doesn't turn just yet, doesn't leave. A slight head tilt, cocking towards _her_ stall.

_Oh, shit._

Calling out for help is pointless; even raising her voice in the hopes of putting on a charade, fooling the woman into leaving is a baseless idea. It'll draw unwarranted attention, and there's a good chance the old man wouldn't even hear her if something happens.

_Breathe. You're starting to hyperventilate._

Impossible to try when her breathing is as loud as her pulse, ringing in her ears, an overwhelming sensation that she wishes dead in its crib, anything to help her retain focus on the ever-approaching, _too close_ figure until the woman is _knocking_ on the stall door, a posh English accent billowing through—reminds her of Park, even if her accent isn't as posh or meticulous, if that even makes sense—

"Excuse me, is this stall taken?"

_Ohgodohgod **ohmyfuckinggod—**_

No sooner do the words leave the woman's mouth before a loud **CRACK!** resounds across the walls, an even louder **THUMP** followed suit, startling her.

Recognizing that distinct scent of tobacco and whiskey, until her stall is ripped open, almost hanging off its hinges, and she's staring up at the old man with wild eyes.

"We must leave the train; we have been compromised," he says, like he's got all the time in the world not to worry, dragging her out by the wrist towards the back of the train, "I will deal with the Americans, you must make it on foot to Kem. A contact of mine will collect you at a field near an old ore mine, from there he will fly you to Helsinki."

_A-Americans?!_

"You told me your obligations didn't end at a railroad track," she says, huffing as he shoves the bag across his shoulder into her arms—the weapons bag.

"They haven't, my dear. Once I have taken care of the Americans, I will meet you in Helsinki. Take my extra radio, and use it _**only for emergencies**_. Only my contact will be able to receive your message, as I cannot risk compromising your safety again."

"At least tell me why I'm going south! I deserve to know what the hell is going on!"

He doesn't respond, occupied with closing off the last freighter door before opening the weapons bag and giving her three guns—a Hauer 77 strapped to her back and twin 1911s strapped into her belt holsters. Her knife sheathed next to the gun at her left hip. Her hand is damaged, how does he expect her to handle a shotgun?

"Ammo is in your bag," he reminds her.

"Answer my question, old man. Why am I going south? What is my purpose there?"

Pipe slipping into his pocket, along with his glasses. Now he looks younger than the masked man, almost around her age. Perhaps he's a veteran, too, another victim of relentless aging brought on by restless nights and a burning desire to _survive_ rather than _live,_ as all soldiers feel... or at least in her (limited) experience as one. Gripping both shoulders, instantly taking her aback at his harrowing seriousness.

"Years ago, I made an important promise," he explains, "one so sacred, that I promised my life in exchange for yours. I intend to uphold my promise to the letter, even if the one I made a promise to will not deliver me to angels and heaven's gates for the atrocities I've committed."

_Atrocities?_

Nodding like he can hear her thoughts, her inner turmoil, he bristles at the incoming footsteps racing towards the freight car, a locked door greeting them upon arrival. Evidently, they don't look happy. The old man opens up the back door, taking her towards the train's edge. And once the moonlight hits his face, a _hurricane_ of fragmented memories strikes the forefront recesses of her mind, even if it does not reveal his name.

Perhaps Fate has it in store for another time. If there is another time.

"You will be traveling to Warsaw," he reveals, accent thick with anxiety (for once, showing emotion she wasn't aware he was capable of showing). "Stitch is awaiting your presence there... and _only_ if you desire it, he will take you to meet an old friend."

Harsh, reverberating thuds against the doors, not using guns to avoid a sudden stop or terrified guests. _Smart_ , she thinks.

"Who did you make the promise to?" She asks, eyes trailing towards the train's edge.

Glass _**shatters**_ , bringing forth three burly men, each carrying blades the width of her wrist, metal gleaming in the pale moonlight.

Making eye contact with the old man... one last time; until both of his hands shove at her chest, forcing a wretched gasp from her lips as she _**falls**_ into weightless air. "I'm sorry," she hears him say over her piercing shriek, turning towards the men with a raised gun—hellfire rains down upon them in an instant, she's sure. Gunshots echoing in the night, air whirling past her face, rustling her hair, until all that she knows is cold, disgusting wet earth and icy air.

Her throat _screams with agony_ , hands immediately going up to feel her stitches; thankfully, nothing tore open during her fall.

Studying her surroundings, which is miles upon miles of forestry to her right, and open seas to her left. Going into Kem is dangerous at this point, not worth a risk if the train doesn't end up reaching its destination. Cradling the radio in frost-stricken, inked palms, debating her options.

_Oh, but what the hell did he mean?_

The one he made a promise to... with a name she doesn't know.

A name shrouded in uncertainty, and no matter how hard she tries her recollection is enveloped in fogginess, like some sort of fugue state within her mind that refuses to seek clarity. Feelings of pride and aloofness are what comes to mind when she thinks of _her_ name, of her _family_ , and she doesn't understand why.

Someone made her caretaker swear his life in place of hers one day. And that day almost came true, in Solovetsky... with _**Adler**_.

With the masked man—whom she can only assume is Stitch—awaiting her presence in Warsaw... an _old friend_ who he will take her to, only if she desires it, it's becoming increasingly difficult to figure things out.

All she wants is to go home. Wherever that may be, whoever thatmay be, she will go there. But until her debt to the men who saved her is fulfilled, personal dilemmas and objectives will have to wait. Perhaps it'll give her time to breathe again, to _live again_ , unlike the weeks of healing and bedrest (the furthest fucking thing from healing, she avows that) with minimal progress surrounding her memory, much less the bullet still in her thoracic cavity.

For now... safety is what she seeks.

Eyes searching for something, anything that will connect her, guide her towards the place she needs to go.

A sign ten yards ahead, her aptitude for languages immediately translating it. _Kuzema._

Bringing the radio to her lips, clicking several times as a test, hoping she won't come to regret it. Within seconds, a distorted voice crackles across the airwaves, until momentary fine-tuning reveals a clearer sound. Not Russian, no. Spanish, brash yet carries a different kind of tone compared to the old man. Whereas the old man was like a parent scolding a child, this man's voice felt like a parent calling out to their lost child, hoping for an answer. Was that supposed to make her feel safer? She's unsure yet.

Insight into her life before is inviting, challenging her almost. Re-discovery is a fickle thing, isn't it?

Maybe she will find Anya, discover the one who made a stranger (whom ironically is incredulously involved in _many_ fleeting memories, leaving in the blink of an eye as quickly as it came to her) vow his life for hers, even at the cost of his own. Wanting to destroy every foundation the CIA laid within her mind.

_She will get there eventually._

Radio to her lips, pressing down on the _talk_ button.

"Kuzema," is all she says into the radio before throwing it into the ocean and making her slow descent towards the promise of safety, the lure of adventure hot on its tail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, you’re still here? XD well in that case, i hope you plan on sticking around because there’s definitely more in store for dearly beloved bell. fair warning, i make no promises that there will be many (if any, tbh) light hearted scenes/chapters for this story, but expect some more action like this, it will all make sense eventually. 
> 
> so yeah, shit went down and it’s gonna go down even more in later chapters lol and don’t worry, this isn’t the last of the old man. i kinda like him, wanna keep him around for a bit ya know? i’m weird like that. 
> 
> thank you for reading, and as always, don’t be afraid to leave comments down below!


	2. till summer comes again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how do you run for your life, when you don't know where to run?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't be the only one noticing my posting pattern, right? lmao maybe i'll just try and post every two days. moving on, this chapter was a bit difficult to write for a variety of reasons, i felt like i couldn't get what i wanted to write out on the pages, but mostly it was because i doubted my ability to write a character suffering from ptsd.
> 
> a lot of time and research went into this, and i'm still not 100% on the fence with my depiction of bell's ptsd and i apologize for that. but overall, i hope you enjoy this chapter, and of course let me know what you think in the comments below :)
> 
> i recommend giving a listen to "spirit in the sky" by norman greenbaum during the fight scene

_**and it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt;** _

_**and perhaps it says, 'go to sleep, darlings, 'till summer comes again'" - Lewis Carroll, "Alice in Wonderland"** _

* * *

_**"I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently?"** _

_It is something she wonders, too. Distantly, in the recesses of her death-hazy mind, experiencing a winter kiss so gentle and everlasting, warm against her cheek—snowflakes for tears, an equilibrium between numbness and anguish. Harrowing, raspy gasps for air, clinging to a vague idea of life that isn't hers to cling to anymore, not when her own life drains between her fingers, not while agony rips apart what remains of her soul, its delicate fibers._

_Matted hair, fingers damp with crimson warmth, seeping through layers of fabric and imprinting fragments of her soul into ice and rock—a hauntingly beautiful canvas, made to his liking, his design._

**_Him._ ** _America's Monster._

_Or perhaps he'll be known as America's Hero, at least to those who will surely commemorate him on such a noble, **dutiful** act; ridding the world of one less hunchback, a liability which could strike at a moment's notice, on a whim._

_It is a swan song without an ending, and she has a front-row seat to the main event._

_Seeing **everything** , committing it to a memory that fades with each crackling rattle of breath, too disfigured to be considered breathing anymore. Ceasing to exist... **dying.**_

_A peculiar thought, really—nobody ever considers death until it is, quite literally, at your doorstep; she imagines it's like an old friend, lost and now found. Returning to stake its claim to your soul, with knuckles so bony and pale, tapping against the doorframe... biding its time to be welcomed inside._

_And when it arrives... restitution is swift, with nowhere to run. Taking **everything** , down to the last iota of the human soul._

**_"And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt;"_ **

_Fingers bearing down against her windpipe, against a weakened and exhausted heartbeat. The column of her throat fitting perfectly within his grasp—uncoincidental, as if made for his hand to clasp onto._

_A robust, unnerving silhouette hides the sun from her eyes (and her from the sun's warmth, likewise). Warmth abating, gives way to death's cold embrace, looming so close but leaves her soul untouched, as of yet. Agony that spills out like ink against the backdrops of pages, receding into paralysis, a numbness of her surroundings, of the awful sting that bullets bring, bullets from his still-smoking gun, holstered against his hip._

_Smokescreen eyes hidden beneath unfeeling aviator lenses—she wonders if they share a rich brown color, or if his eyes are one with the morning sky... a deep blue?_

_Disembodied voices, two to be exact; one continuing its recitement of Lewis Carroll, the other revealing secrets that her ears are no longer privy to, the onset of a cacophony of bells ringing against her temples, a ruthless onslaught, crying out wordlessly for its end. The first voice seems to be unaware of how grave, poignant the last moments are between two people caught in the clutches of finality. The second... sounds like **him**._

_Disembodied, but unmistakable._

_Warm lips press against her skin—stains itself with snowflakes and blood, a pink impression in its wake—easing her way through the gates of vast nothingness, allowing death to stake its claim, as it had been waiting to do so for quite some time._

**_"And perhaps it says, "Go to sleep, darlings, 'till summer comes again."_ **

_Hands bringing hers against the wound in her heart, away from her throat, his last kindness he will ever afford her, whispering towards the sky, "Rest easy, kid."_

_Light gives way to dark... life gives way to death._

_Bells reaching a crescendo, until it recedes just so, along with her last breath._

* * *

**Kuzema**

_Bells of a steam locomotive, a pale comparison to the voice of death at the crossroads—all the same, it terrifies her awake._

Startles her with a fright, bridge overhead swallowing up the moonlight, coming to life as a train passes over, and suddenly she's _very aware_ of her surroundings, hands grasping her gun holsters; instinctual, an innate practice that brings forth _anger_ and _uncertainty_ and the vital need to _stay alive, fight for it!—_

_—Stop. Nobody is here. Let your heart rest, for once._

A disembodied voice bearing strong resemblance to the old man's, calling out at the forefront of her mind, stern with an air of calmness to it. He's no stranger to her abrupt frights in the night, wears reminders of her justifiable anger in the form of scars, scratches, and bruises. A necessary evil, he calls it. Tends to happen when a soldier forgets to leave the war behind, or if the war brings _itself_ home. But she hasn't been a war soldier for quite some time.

Despite his calming aura, he is not truly there with her, and because of her, he's most likely dead.

So her anger rages on, scorching hectares of her subconscious, the part of her brain that speaks reason and comfort suffocating under the weight of her ire.

Eyes wild with terror, as if in a hazy fever dream, sensations tugging at her sinews with vice grips, screaming voices, agony writhing about in her throat and heart—rejuvenating the fiery need to keep fighting, even as exhaustion grinds her bones into ash.

_Listen to me, my dear. You are safe. There is no war to fight. Rest now..._

Steadily so, intuition overtakes instinct, tempering her rage with soft touches and another soothing voice, suspiciously close to Dr. Trager's (or at least what she can recall of the woman's voice, robust yet bearing a maternal warmth, often having to stifle it whenever Hudson was within earshot, such _lovely_ memories). Indeed, the woman's voice serves to deliver the final, stifling blow to her anger, bringing her back to reality, to the dilapidated bridge somewhere within the limits of Kuzema.

A sinking, horrific feeling sinks into the pit of her stomach upon her comprehension of the _mental hell_ she just endured, all within the span of _**seconds.**_

_Is that what it's like? To feel powerless in the face of immeasurable anger... and having no choice but to succumb?_

And all it took was the voice of a ghost, a new stranger, to bring her rage to heel. A storm come to pass, going as quickly as it came.

_Dr. Trager... she wonders where the woman is these days._

Despite their limited time, brief encounters in-between missions—no doubt keeping her on a short leash—there was never a moment where she felt the good doctor was being treacherous. Although, there were times... times she's caught a glimpse of disappointment from the woman.

Not because of her, no, but because of _something_ unbeknownst to her.

It also happened to be the last time they ever met, as Hudson reassigned Dr. Trager elsewhere. Hudson isn't a man of coincidence... and she doesn't believe in such things.

There's a lurking suspicion that the good doctor had something to say, but was immediately prevented from doing so.

_Maybe one day, she'll find out what it was._

With shaking hands and a trembling breath, taking her jacket off the ground (having used it as her only source of warmth amidst the bite of winter), warmth steadily building up across her skin as she does up the zipper. Taking her bag (an incredibly uncomfortable pillow, considering the contents within it), slings it across her shoulder as she begins her descent into the town. Going straight into the town was too risky; it's within walking distance, and those after her don't seem like the sort to wait and see.

Her back, abdomen and feet ache with each step, having taken the brunt force of her fall from the train. City lights crackle and flicker, easily discernible in the fog of night. Finding a spare change of clothing, medical supplies and other necessities, and a _Hannibal_ novel are at the top of her objectives. Perhaps a shower, come to think of it.

No doubt, there's a temporary hostel nearby before she has to search for the old man's contact. As long as they don't ask questions.

_Wishful thinking, right?_

Sure enough, after about fifteen minutes of walking through deserted streets— _narrowly_ avoiding passerby—she finds herself a quaint, affordable hostel, mentally calculating how much it'll be worth for one night, even if she's not sticking around. Ignoring the pointed glance of the hostel owner—an older woman, perhaps even older than the old man, fighting back a laugh at the thought—she sets the bag next to her feet. _"Сколько за одну ночь?"_

Without fault, the woman gives her a rate; easily affordable, leaves room for her to stop and buy necessities. Counting the extensive stack of rubles, picking out the approximate amount before handing it over to the woman in exchange for a room key.

Of course, she gives more than what is owed.

 _"Сдачи не надо,"_ she mutters with a shake of her head, "Где я могу найти припасы?"

The woman points across from the hostel, towards a small store, the only one left open at this untimely hour.

With a curt nod, picking up her bag as she turns away, stopping upon hearing the woman call out. Meeting her gaze, something akin to concern in the older woman's eyes, nails tapping against the hardwood desk in unrepetitive motions. _"Куда ты собираешься?"_

_Who are you running from?_

Doesn't go unsaid, settling between the two women, great discomfort welling in her chest at the question. Wondering _how_ to answer that, when she looks no better than a street rat, undoubtedly has wild eyes, ever cognizant of her surroundings even before stepping foot inside the hostel. Aware of the cat atop a nearby windowsill to the left, evidently the older woman's own room within the hostel. A crack in a window on the first row of stairs going up. A couple holding hands as they pass by.

There's no such thing as an easy answer, this time is no different.

Running as far as she can, hoping those running after her are never too close by, but unable to take the risk—to settle down and _rest easy,_ for once.

It's no easy answer, but it is the simplest one that comes to mind.

_"Я не знаю."_

Stepping into light rainfall, cursing at how strikingly cold she suddenly feels as she makes way towards the store, bag secure across her shoulder. A cheery jingle as she pushes the door open, instantly mapping out her surroundings. There are only two people within eyesight—the cashier and a man, conversing together at the counter.

_No time to waste._

**Medical supplies** , first and foremost. Adhesive bandages and gauze tape, antiseptic wipes, and a medkit, contents aligning with her mental list to the letter.

 **Clothing**. Settling for a heavier-set black jacket, several pairs of grey shirts and underwear, and two pairs of black cargo pants. Brown winter boots, to complete it. She already has a toque and gloves in her bag.

Having to settle for less, considering the lack of Thomas Harris novels. Immediately recognizing the black cursive letterings across a blue backdrop.

_The Bluest Eye. The old man would be proud._

After grabbing food options, a lighter, and a pack of Marlboro Reds ( _God,_ can she be any more like Adler?), she checks out quietly once the man before her gives way, yet doesn't seem particularly inclined to leave. Alarm bells _ring_ against her temples, heart rate picking up as his gaze settles over her with vague curiosity that is _**anything**_ but innocent. She's met men like that before— **none** of them live to tell the tale.

 _"Много всего для одной женщины,"_ he says, to which she immediately picks up on a grimace on the cashier's face while ringing her up.

_Not the first time, huh._

_"Вы путешественник?"_

Nothing good will come of a response, hostile or civil regardless. Opening up her bag (making sure her shotgun is hidden within a section the old man personally saw to including, thank God) once she's exchanged the right amount to the cashier, keeping her mind alert and her mouth shut. Of course, it's not taken quite well. Lecherous eyes trailing up and down her figure, _scoping her out_ , deciding if she's an easy target or not worth the hassle.

Evidently, she seems to fall under the former category to him.

 _"Не волнуйся,"_ he says, taking a step closer (bristling at her remaining put, if that glare is a given), _"_ _Я не кусаюсь."_

The moment she closes her bag, she shoves herself away from the counter, ignoring the glare boring into the back of her skull but knowing restitution is within the man's peripherals. Time is limited, and now that someone's deemed her an easy target for an array of awful and degrading things, surely, her time in Kuzema will undoubtedly end on a bloody, messy note. Brisk footsteps across gravel, until she reaches her designated room, unlocking it enough to step inside, immediately locking it thereafter.

It's too dangerous to keep the bag out here, much less dispose of her ragged, disgusting clothing with her lighter.

Bringing it into the bathroom, settling it onto the floor with a light thud, getting to work on removing any traces of her awful encounter on the train, throw the CIA off her scent.

Keeping her filthy clothing in a separate bag from a nearby closet, preparing to light it aflame once she gets the chance. Stepping into a shower after _weeks_ of lukewarm baths at the cabin is _pure bliss_ to her nerves, setting them alight as raw, aching pain sears her skin, the hot water serving to cauterize the aching sensations. Making use of what little time she has, ensuring every last speck of grime, blood, and viscera swirling down the drain—staying mindful of her recently added neck and chest scars.

Beside the scars given to her by the traitor—Kadivar, from one traitor to another—the ones **he** gave her, standing out amidst the rest.

It's strange, how they don't resemble her other scars, despite resulting from the same thing: a bullet.

Compliments to the old man's handiwork, pressing gentle fingers into the raised skin, a new constellation amongst the galaxy of various constellations, from burns to contusions to broken bones... she's experienced most, but not the lethal sort. She supposes that's what makes them unique, separate from the others.

Back in Murmansk—seconds after her first, reinvigorated breaths of life... she wondered if she got a shot off on the bastard responsible for her scars.

_She was so sure of it..._

Another thing she hopes to one day find out. But not until she figures things out, and there are _many_ things to figure out before that point.

Her instincts were correct; moments after putting on her new clothes, settling her shirt across the plane of her back, tucking into her pants, the front door to her room slams open, followed by another loud thud, supposedly the door falling off its hinges at the contact. Muffled voices—three, to be exact, all speaking Russian. Digging through an untouched room, having not yet looked into the bathroom.

_Good._

Reaching into her bag, pulling her heavier jacket atop her lightweight one and donning it, just before reaching back in again for two important things.

_Her P226, suppressor included—may Lazar Azoulay rest in peace._

_A smoke grenade, courtesy of the old man._

Keeping it clean it out of the question, not with the ratio against her. Distraction is her only hope, providing just enough time to get a shot off on all three. Her lack of a gas mask might screw her over, but she doesn't have a choice in the matter. _Make do with what you've got_ , something Woods once told her before their mission in Ukraine.

Gun in her holster, keeping a watchful eye on the door and careful hands (as careful as one can be, with a useless one) on the smoke grenade, awaiting the opportune moment.

" _ **Fuck!**_ You said she would be here!"

"I cannot be mistaken—three weeks of tracking in _godforsaken_ Murmansk, I'm not letting her off so soon! Kravchenko will have my head!"

_KBG agents—specifically **Kravchenko's** agents. Shit._

She admires their determination, if indeed they have been tracking her since Murmansk. So, she's being hunted by both the CIA _and_ the KGB. Really does her in for a mindfuck, being at the top of the hit lists simply for surviving a death sentence—there was no moral high ground, no matter if she was deceptive or honest.

Someone would have it out for her, inevitably becoming a liability to both sides. Well, she's not wasting her breath thinking about the logistics of that, not when survival is at the forefront.

_No time to waste._

Opening the door just so, allowing enough space to roll the smoke grenade towards the three men (still tearing up every inch _but_ the bathroom; at this rate, Kravchenko's going to be _very_ disappointed in his choice of lackies), giving to the count of three... _one... **three.**_

A small explosion, smoke wafting and billowing in thick clouds across the room, followed by muttered curses and hacking coughs. Time is of the essence, with no margin for error when survival is on the line. Cocking her gun, bringing it up to eye level and centering her aim. Muscle memory, instinctual, methodical.

**One. Two. Three.**

Two of them go down, bullets in their skulls, blood seeping into wooden floorboards.

The biggest fucker just happens to be the one that doesn't go down, the one from the store.

As the smoke clears, feral eyes set on her, malicious grin spreading across his face. "Nice try," he snarls, before _**charging**_ her like a mad dog.

Little room is left for her to get out of harm's way, a strong, sturdy frame slamming into her, taking her to the ground. Her skull cracks against the floor, forcing a pained yelp from her lips, stifled as giant hands wrap around her neck ( _far too fucking close to her scar_ ), ignoring her nails digging into his wrists and relishing in her struggles.

Not to kill her, just incapacitate her—Colonel Kravchenko isn't a man who concerns himself with loose ends, but she possesses invaluable information. It's a possibility.

"Fuckin' bitch," he spits, bloody spittle hitting her cheek, "you stain Mother Russia's name with your betrayal."

 _No arguments here,_ is what she wants to say. Instead, it comes out garbled, raspy croaks as darkness blotches her vision.

This can't be how she dies... not so soon...

An opportune moment presents itself; his eyes, wide with tear-stricken fury, a lasting result of the smoke grenade.

Without fault, gouging his left eye, relishing his agonizing howls as blood spurts onto her face and neck, thankfully not reaching beyond her heavy jacket to her inner layers. Staggering back, hands flying to his bloody face as his howls diminish in length, yet increases in pitch, almost like a banshee screeching in the night. Coughing for air, leaning up on her elbows to keep her eyes on the man—until a shot rings out, momentarily deafening her, as the man's corpse falls lifelessly to the ground, bullet in his other eye.

"Jesus," she seethes, voice hoarse with agony, feeling an intense ache in her scar despite having been left untouched.

Begs the question of _who_ is responsible for saving her life.

Staring up at a hooded figure dripping with rainwater, with a silhouette of a beard when moonlight refracts off a nearby mirror. Muzzle of his gun still smoking, but upon seeing her on the floor, lowers it just so yet keeping it suspended in his grasp. From here, she can see _various_ tattoos inked across both arms, stretching into his clothes, away from her eyes. He reminds her of Stitch, but he's clearly no Russian nor a CIA agent.

"You've made a lot of enemies," he says, and his voice is distinct, familiar. _Spanish._ "It's very difficult to keep track of, you know that?"

"Who are you?" A wary hand on her holstered 1911, never going into a fight without a backup plan.

Pulling his hood down to reveal a mesh of brown hair, fringe falling across his forehead with a silly little smirk on his face. "I'm hurt—I hoped the old man would've at least mentioned me, if I'm to be your _protection detail._ "

So, _he's_ the one on the radio. Just so happened to be in the right place at the right time. His voice is exact to the one from the radio, but it doesn't hurt to make sure.

"Show me your shoulder," she demands, bringing her 1911 to eye-level, stifling the remnants of her cough—sure to develop into a sore throat, no doubt.

It seems to click immediately for him, pulling down a portion of his jacket to expose his shoulder, to expose _exactly_ what she needs as confirmation; a tattoo of Latin inscription, a simple phrase that the old man also has inked in his collarbone— _fortunis hominum._ Something she recalls from a conversation between her and the old man, three days before their departure from Murmansk.

_Your tattoo. What does it mean?_

_A memory from the war, I believe. It has been years, a long time, cannot recall many details anymore. Only several comrades and I share these words._

_What does it mean, old man?_

_... Men of fortune. Or so I was told. My youngest comrade alive has this, and I've not seen him for quite some time. About four years, now?_

His last comrade alive, and he doesn't look remotely as old as the old man. Although, to be fair, the old man was vague with details of _which_ war, keeping such things privy to himself, God, and those who died by his hand. Could've been Afghanistan, Germany, or Vietnam. Earlier, perhaps. Regardless, he shares the tattoo with the old man, and if he's the contact spoken of, she sees no reason to drop him where he stands, continuing the journey to Poland alone, on-foot.

"Who are you?" She repeats, holstering her gun once he does, moving to pick up her P226 from near the nightstand.

"My name is Aguilar Navarro."

"You know what I am referring to. Don't act stupid with me—your insignia tells me you served in the Spanish Army; a _Capitán,_ if memory serves right."

 _"Commandant,"_ he corrects, smirk returning. "You're knowledgeable, I'll give you that. Perhaps we can discuss this from a safer distance, and preferably _off_ Soviet territory. Once the KGB are made aware of this... _mishap_ , they'll start looking. I've got a plane docked at the port, but we haven't much time. Grab what you can carry, and we'll set off for Helsinki."

His words don't get longer than seconds to sink in, before distant sirens go off from the east. With incredible haste, she throws her bag across her shoulder—smart move, taking nothing out, save for a spare change of clothes—

_Her stained clothes._

"Wait," she says, sprinting into the bathroom for the plastic bag she wrapped them up in, swiftly taking it from its resting spot in the bathtub, sirens approaching with alarming speed. He gives her a pointed nod, directing her through brief alleyways, apart from streetlights, making way towards the port faster than she can keep up with.

Eventually, after a five-minute sprint through Kuzema, they arrive at the port—Aguilar points towards a black seaplane, Cessna 185, to be exact.

"Once we cross into Finland, the KGB cannot track us. Neutrality is a wonderful thing," he remarks, inked hand stretching towards her, to which she takes after momentary hesitation, boosting herself into the cabin.

Within minutes, KGB swarm the port, sweeping far and wide in search of her despite the darkness giving an upper hand in concealing the seaplane. Aguilar sets the plane in-motion, smoothly taking off south—not before flipping off the Soviets back on the ground.

 _A Spanish Frank Woods,_ she thinks, a smirk playing at the edge of her lips.

A comfortable silence settles in the cabin, more preferable than small talk (or half-assed attempts at such foolish things).

Despite the high altitude, it seems appropriate to settle her frayed nerves with her first drag of a Marlboro Red. Inked hands clasping at her lighter—ironically, a silver Zippo, an indirect ode to America's Monster himself—intaking short, bitter wafts of smoke, billowing from her mouth only to be swallowed with a deep inhale.

It's... not bad. Not exactly a sweet treat, in which case, _everybody_ would be smoking cigarettes, but has a tanginess to it that isn't unpleasant, yet toes the line of harsh and acrid to the tongue. It's only when the aftertaste hits that it becomes tolerable, rich, even.

Of course, she nearly had the life choked out of her. Coughing is inevitable.

"No smoking in the cabin," Aguilar calls from the cockpit, "can't have your pilot reaching for his own, only to crash headfirst into the ocean, hm?"

"I suppose not," she remarks, ashing it on a nearby table. He'll notice eventually. Hopefully, long after her _escort_ into Finland, where they'll never meet again.

All she's left to cross off her to-do list is buy a Fleetwood Mac vinyl. Good things come to those who wait.

Standing up and making way towards the cockpit, settling into the passenger seat with a quiet sigh, enjoying how the stars utterly _marvel_ within their place amongst the night sky, clouds breaking through to provide a breathtaking horizon of constellations, purple-blue hues... the world below having no idea of how truly incredible the view is. It's something she wishes to commit to more than just memory—a picture won't do it justice, though. A painting, perhaps, not that she knows any painters, as of late.

A shame, at that. Art is in the eye of the beholder, but she's yet to see mediocrity, if her vague memories of home (wherever that may be) are any indication.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes," she agrees, still caught up in the beauty of it all, not paying attention to him much.

"I remember a time when this wasn't possible," he starts, keeping his eyes forward, "despite that, it only served to fuel my desires to learn. I crashed the first seven times before I ever achieved a successful flight."

"How many died?"

"None," he laughs, to which she feels compelled to share a smile out of courtesy. "I made myself useful just before the war; becoming an officer was the most difficult, fulfilling thing I've ever done. Wouldn't change a damn thing about it, even if I could go back and make my first run a success. Just doesn't feel right, puts shame to the memory of it."

He makes it sound as if planes were invented yesterday. Another piece of the enigmatic puzzle that is her newfound ally, and she's no closer to solving it than before.

"I never got your name," he notes.

"You know it already."

"Only the one given to you by the CIA. I'd like to know your real name—I have a feeling that Finland won't be our last encounter."

"We are not friends just because you saved my life, or because the old man pays you to keep an eye on me." _Assuming the man isn't dead._

"No, but a first-name basis is a good foundation to start with."

Persistent bastard, just like Woods. Although Woods cared less about making friends as he did making enemies, and killing them to boot. Feelings aren't going to save her life, nor incline her to consider this stranger, someone who's undoubtedly in it for a paycheck (as he should, rather than be her friend). Even if that weren't the case, she doesn't have an answer beyond that of what he knows: **Bell**.

Unequivocally, it is something she will carry until her _(final)_ dying breath, regardless of her eventual re-discovery.

Mind control is a bitch to overcome, and with each passing day, it's as if she's stuck in one place, never moving forward (or even moving back, for that matter, which she's not entirely sure is a good thing). No closer to figuring out who she is, even with the fragments that come and go, leaving nothing in the wake of its eventual departure.

Only the CIA and her— _forged_ —dossier holds the answers she's looking for. Unless there's actually a point in her survival, and her travels to Poland.

"I don't know," she answers honestly. "Bell is all I have left, and always will be, most likely."

"So create something new," he suggests. "Nobody's stopping you, hm? Not even the old man, God bless his soul."

" **Don't** say that." Closing her eyes, cursing quietly. "Sorry. It's just—he doesn't feel dead. He took on three armed men without batting an eye; I have to consider the possibility that he survived the train attack."

 _I bought his favorite book, for Christ's sake,_ hangs off the tip of her tongue, remembering _the Bluest Eye_ nestled in-between her other shirts in that bag.

Maybe if she finishes the book, the old man won't die on her. Wishful thinking, once again.

"Exactly how I remember him," Aguilar says. "Always taking the fight to the enemy instead of the other way around. Well, wherever he may be, I hope you're right. I still need to be paid by the end of my contract concerning your safe arrival in Poland. I'm _not_ asking that masked Soviet fucker, with the blind eye."

"I don't think he's doing it for money, in truth," she admits. "It seems... personal. I don't know why."

Recalling his words from the last time they met. One day after Solovetsky, with fresh wounds and a misguided path in her horizons.

_Now that she's awake, he must be informed of her recovery._

He isn't KGB, that much she knows. Aside from the possibility of him being a Perseus agent—considering Perseus acts _outside_ of Moscow's authority, to her recollection—Stitch is a blank spot in her ever-changing memory lapses. Not even a flashback, nor an awful nightmare like the one from hours before... it's _frustrating_.

"I'll get some rest," she suddenly says, not bothering to wait for a response as she makes way towards her seat. Taking her heavier jacket, settling it across her curled-up figure stretching across two chairs, sleep finding her quickly, swiftly, with the hazy image of the starry, purple skies imprinting itself in her memory.

* * *

**unknown location**

A fist strikes across a bruised, bleeding face, sending bloodied spittle flying across the wall, forcing a pained grunt from its host. Dulcet tune of Pink Floyd's _Eclipse_ is the only sound in the room, apart from heavy breathing and light curses. A song he played while the girl slept her way through weeks of recovery. Keeps people from seeking them out in the dilapidated room he's held within.

Bound fists struggling against their ties, head slowly tilting to stare into the face of his interrogator.

_Russell Adler._

Crackling laughter erupting from his chest, serving to aggravate Adler, enough to send his fist flying back into the old man's face. Once, twice, five times. Skin pulling taut with inflammation, joining the plethora of abrasions and bruises he's received in the hours of his interrogation.

"No more fucking games, old man. Lie to me again, and you'll be sent home to your motherland in a body bag," he threatens, cracking bruised, bloodied knuckles.

"A waste of a good body bag, I think," he smartly remarks, spitting blood into Adler's eye.

Shoving the chair to the ground, before Adler's boot presses into the column of the old man's throat, applying light pressure in the hopes of preserving his windpipe, make sure the old man can still talk once he's had enough— _if_ he'll ever have enough. Adler's been interrogating him for nearly three hours, and hasn't moved an inch closer to the information he seeks about **her. Bell.**

_**"Where is she?"** _

"Fuck you, American dog," the old man rasps, breath cut short by Adler's boot _sinking_ against his thorax, only for another distinct voice to call out.

"Adler. Don't kill him yet."

The old man stares up at the one-eyed _traitor_ , also staring down at him with an air of indifference, arms folded across his chest and a scowl on his face. Oh, he knows that face. It's the same face he saw in Baikonur, with the Americans he's associated himself, dogs like Russell Adler who seek things that do not belong to them, will go to great lengths to re-capture such things in their clutches.

"Grigori Weaver," the old man snarls, "you _fucking_ traitor. Kravchenko did right, taking that eye."

"KGB agents were spotted in Kuzema, old man. Three of Kravchenko's men, found dead in some hostel there with bullets in their brains—one had his eye gouged out," Weaver says, ignoring the biting jab.

"Did anybody see who was responsible?" Adler questions, redirecting his attention to Weaver's intel.

"No, but the hostel's owner reported only one customer in the timeframe of the incident—a woman matching her description."

Suddenly, sardonic lies aren't enough for the old man. He hoped he bought the girl time, away from both Kravchenko and Adler's clutches—both sides seeking her out, and both seeking the opportunity to dispose of her the moment her life is deemed unnecessary. Collateral damage. The very things he and Stitch put _immeasurable_ amount of effort in to ensure that didn't happen—it was their orders, after all.

"Now, we just need to know where she's going," Adler says, and his boot's back on the old man's throat, "so start talking, old man. We've got all the time in the world."

"Fucking liar," he replies, toothy grin all blood and malice.

"You're getting desperate. That's why you're here, beating an old man instead of looking for her yourself. Can't go into Soviet territory so soon after Solovetsky, so you're just waiting for her to slip up, or for me to give her up. Neither of which will happen. Like traitorous Weaver here, I made my bed the day I chose a side. I'll pay whatever price is necessary for that if it keeps her out of your clutches, you **_son of a bitch_** —"

Adler's knee goes straight into the old man's nose, a god-awful **crack** resounding across the room, followed by the old man's howls of pure agony, only letting up when Weaver pulls him away.

It's _incredibly_ personal, beyond any reasonable doubt. Otherwise Adler's fabled dark side—the American Monster the old man's heard ghost stories about from Stitch—wouldn't be rearing its ugly head, breaking his nose and beating him to within an inch of his life.

"We will get it eventually, Adler," Weaver says. "If not from the old man, then we'll start looking ourselves, get in touch with some old contacts out east."

"Great. Any ideas, Weaver? Because I'm all fucking out."

"I'll have more intel within the hour. Until then, I've got several people in mind who can help. Including your Agent Park in MI6, considering her proximity to this particular case. Either kill the old man now, or bide your time until he cracks. I've a feeling it won't be long, with any luck," Weaver explains, looking towards the crumpled mess of a man on the floor, nose leaking like a broken faucet long after the screaming has stopped.

"I'll see if Hudson can have a word with Bell's doctor," Adler finally says, lighting a cigarette as he examines a dossier—whom the name it is connected to is left redacted. "I made the mistake of letting my guard down the first time—it's never happening again. If Dr. Trager has an idea of where she's going, it's a start."

"Well, if the KGB is hunting her, we both know the other possibility of _who else_ wants her. And most likely ensured her survival."

"You'd think after royally fucking up their plans to nuke all of Europe, _he'd_ go dark," Adler grimaces, cursing lowly. "In the meantime, I'll keep the old man occupied. Let me know if anything new comes up. Thanks, Weaver."

"Of course."

And with Weaver's departure, it leaves an open gap between Adler and the old man. Fingers skimming the top of the dossier, overlooking the same details he's committed to memory a thousand times over. **Dead sister. Soviet brother. Gulag tattoos. PTSD.**

Park may have re-invented Bell, but Dr. Trager figured her out first, and without half of the vital information in the dossier, Bell would've been a mystery—an incredibly difficult mystery to put to rest, wouldn't have been able to keep her on a short leash. Right now, Trager's the last bullet in Adler's arsenal, at least until Weaver's contacts turn up with something useful, whether it's about the attack in Kuzema, or a slip-up somewhere in Europe.

Even with news of that liability from Operation Rebirth having been set loose from the gulag that Kravchenko threw him into the moment Adler released him back to Soviet clutches, there's no margin for error, not when so much is at stake than just valuable information.

And if Perseus wants her too... it is a precarious battle between three superpowers: Russia, the United States, and Perseus itself. But he doesn't care about those things... not even about the interests of his colleagues.

He had his orders from Hudson back in that hospital... and his orders from the President, as well. There's no saving a lost cause. No room for sentiment.

Adler intends to be the one to send her off to a deserving death, but this time, he refuses to falter, to leave room for failure.

_After all, he intends to get even for that bullet to the throat he took, just as she took a bullet to hers._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at me, bringing greg weaver into this story 😂
> 
> so in the last chapter, i goofed the contact’s accent and said he was italian, when he’s actually spanish. oopsie. i’ve made a change to that already, so there’s no confusion going forward. 
> 
> apologies for any historical inaccuracy you happen to notice (please let me know, i prefer writing accurately, especially for fics set in the past), im learning on the fly lol 
> 
> hope you guys enjoyed this and that you’ll stick around for more! next chapter’s gonna introduce a brief time frame within finland, but i plan to slow it down on the action, focus on bell’s recovery or re-introduce stitch since his last cameo in the previous fic. 
> 
> this chapter was a doozy, but i hope it was well worth the massive wc i sent your way XD


	3. intermission - russell adler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief, bittersweet insight into the mind of Russell Adler, following the events of Solovetsky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literally came up with this on the fly after realizing i never expanded on how both the kgb and the cia know about bell surviving solovetsky, so i figured why not do it from adler's perspective?
> 
> i hope everyone's staying safe, and that you enjoy this brief little thing!

_**i desire the things which will destroy me in the end. - Sylvia Plath** _

* * *

**Tampere, Finland - March 18th, 1981**

_Pain comes and goes in waves, a constant._

There's no exact point where it borders excruciating, just a hazy, aching sensation with no signs of resignation anytime soon. Can't... can't comprehend where temporary relief ends and agony begins—the lights reflecting across his eyes aren't doing him any favors, either. He was in Solovetsky, completely and unequivocally _certain_ he had the sun to his back, a gun between his fingers... a corpse splayed across rock and soil, just within arm's reach. **Her** corpse.

Except, she's not here. It's just _agony,_ hazy vertigo blotching his vision—and the person standing directly across from his bed, face indistinguishable with how hard the lights bear down on him.

A god-awful, rattling sound erupts from his chest, the first attempt at sound with minimal success.

"Don't," the voice says, disembodied, wavering in and out of his subconscious—trying to narrow down the list of people (a very short one, come to think of it) who'd trouble themselves with being at his bedside. "You've just survived a bullet to the throat, Russ. Don't wear yourself out trying to speak."

_A bullet to the throat?_

The faceless figure approaches his bedside, shielding his eyes from the light and allowing a clear glimpse of the person's face; it's Hudson, glasses perched across the bridge of his nose, indifferent look on his face despite that clench of his jaw, muscle noticeably twitching. "You're a lucky bastard, you know that? If it hadn't been for Mason and Woods hearing the shots go off, you wouldn't have made it to the OR. We would've been bringing back a corpse."

_Shots. He remembers pulling a gun... and her response in kind._

Within his peripheral vision, a small bird perches itself upon the windowsill, infrequently tapping against the glass. As gently as he can with a tube in his throat (held securely together with a fuck-ton of gauze, no doubt), turning to look at the bird. A Eurasian blackbird—with its distinct yellow beak and eyes as dark as its feathers.

The same bird he saw... moments before that pseudo-Mexican standoff back on Solovetsky, clearly having gone awry.

A tight feeling stretches within his chest, enclosing it with vice grips, bringing great discomfort the longer he stares at the bird.

It's a reminder of why he's here, when he could've been back in Berlin, or on another mission—routine, business as usual (as it should be).

A mission so _simple_ , yet simply unavoidable, on strict orders from the President to eliminate any possibility of his _protégé_ getting smart ideas. Something he's extremely familiar with, having never failed to put down those who needed putting down. And yet, he _still_ failed, and the fault is his.

It makes that tight sensation shrivel up in the white-hot face of _wrath_ , acidic venom on his tongue.

Wanting to put his fist through a wall, track her down, drag her by the **_fucking_** hair and put a bullet through her skull—at least then, he'd know she's well and truly **dead.**

"I warned you about her, Russ. I told you she would become a liability, that you should've killed her long before stepping foot in Solovetsky. Now, you're fighting for your life and she's out there, doing God knows what—assuming she's even alive. Mason and Woods reported her body missing once they brought you back, and I'm not taking any chances. Once you're back on your feet, you're ending it. Permanently, this time," Hudson says.

It makes him eager, preparing to uphold his new orders once this tube's out of his throat and can _actually_ speak, already finding it difficult to remain silent.

The shrill cries of the blackbird have him glancing back towards it, fists clenching at the sheer _reminder_ of her, her voice, her hair... everything about her setting itself aflame in his mind, along with what little shreds of dignity he has left, having left it up to Fate that day in Solovetsky.

Fate. A stupid concept, made by those unable to comprehend how tentative mortality is, how unkind it is at its core; it reminds him of how dangerously close to death he was, something he hasn't felt in a very long time, never wanting to revisit that intolerable feeling of powerlessness, of the loss of _agency_. He's not leaving anything to chance this time, not when it could've cost his life.

"Weaver and Park are communicating with their contacts within the surrounding area near Solovetsky. With any luck, they should provide something useful if we're to figure out where our target has gone. Until then, stay put—we're not going to risk losing you again," Hudson explains. "Take care, Russ. I'll be in touch."

Before he leaves, Hudson sets a dossier atop Adler's bedside table, one he immediately recognizes as hers—the genuine one, at least.

A true glimpse into the mind of a science project gone wrong, of a foolish little girl playing at soldier, only to become a puppet.

Indeed, there's no playing games anymore, not when she nearly killed him, a rare creature that hasn't reared its ugly head in a long while. If anybody is capable of getting _that_ close to offing him, they've earned a level of respect from him—and with it, the burning, overwhelming desire to _ensure_ it doesn't happen again.

It was a mistake on his part to care about her. Deluding himself into believing she'd make a respected ally—oh, but she's no Greg Weaver. Weaver earned his place, as did Mason, despite that nasty mind-control business (a justifiable reason to keep both him and Woods in the dark about MK-Ultra's latest guinea pig) nearly two decades ago.

Even considering the idea of something... something _more_... it was an idea destined to burst into flames, powerless in the clutches of wrath.

And all it took was a bullet to the throat for him to understand that.

Perhaps there's a better world—far beyond this one, where duty will _always_ come first—in which there are no rules, no unspoken rule that foreswears agency over obligation. A world where caring for her isn't such a horrible thing, one he could grow accustomed to (even _enjoy_ ) as long as she's right there to grow accustomed to it, as well. _With him_.

_A tangible idea until it isn't supposed to be. Until it interferes with the mission._

If it destroys him, if it utterly tears him apart and leaves nothing but ash in its wake, so be it. She is (and always will be) his mission.

_And he can't wait until the day comes where he finally finishes it off—an eye for an eye._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really don't have a life if i'm updating this frequently XD
> 
> i might dabble with the idea of more intermissions like this, where it breaks away from bell's third person perspective and gives more insight into the how and why she's being hunted, even if such things remain unknown to her as the story progresses.
> 
> and this chapter also gave me some thought into adding some romance for sure (if that's what the people want, then that's what the people shall have), so please let me know what you guys think of that idea ;) until next time... peace out!


	4. precious and fragile things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things get damaged, things get broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, this took a bit longer than i expected, even for several days of planning. the next few chapters i plan to pump the breaks on the action, give bell a chance to breathe, get her bearings together while struggling with her injuries.
> 
> i recommend giving a listen to 'precious' by depeche mode, where i got the title from and listened to when writing a very heartbreaking scene in this chapter (i think you'll know it when you see it). let me know what you guys wanna see moving forward, maybe it'll give me a clearer idea of how to plan it out. and i just love hearing from you :)
> 
> (ps. despite how it's spelled, doc trager's first name is pronounced 'jana', just spelled weirdly)

_**things get damaged, things get broken;** _

_**i thought we'd manage, but words left unspoken** _

_**left us so brittle;** _

_**there was so little left to give.** _

* * *

**Harrisburg, Pennsylvania; State Capitol - April 13th, 1981**

_Beautiful day in a vile, wretched city._

Adler's read the reports. Harrisburg isn't without its vices—minor and severe, there's no difference to him—however, he isn't here to grovel.

Hudson looked into where Dr. Trager was re-assigned, and as it stands, she returned to her roots, away from the turmoil that comes with working at Langley. It took longer than expected to arrange a meeting—having to get clearance from the governor to borrow space within the Capitol, to hours' worth of combing through the archives for Trager's research.

MI6 cleared Park to return to America within the night, sharing a carpool with Adler on the two-hour drive to Pennsylvania.

Now, they're here. Awaiting Hudson and Trager's contingent arrival. Smoke billows across the room, imprints within his lungs in a familiar, acidic burn.

Park's injuries are healing well. Cuts disappearing, bruises diminish. And yet, there's that hidden tremble, dancing across her fingers as it makes way towards her newly lit cigarette. Rather be anywhere but here, that's for certain. Even he was quite hesitant to leave Weaver with the old man—not out of doubt for Weaver's self-sufficiency in handling a battered old bastard, no.

Out of a besetting desire to _keep going_ , give the old man an idea of what hell is truly like.

His interrogation is far from over. Inevitably, someone is going to slip up—whether it be the old man, or Bell... it will happen.

Until then, their next best move is Dr. Trager, clinging to the vague hope that this trip will come to fruition.

Doors open behind them, and with it comes two pairs of footsteps—Hudson's expensive boots, a pair of clicking high heels following suit. Swiveling around to see Dr. Trager, hair loosely tied up, glasses nowhere to be seen. Nursing a cigarette of her own (he's not much of a Camel smoker, but to each their own), making way towards the seat across from him and Park.

Hudson elects to remain standing, carrying an extensive file in his hands... a necessary breakthrough just within horizons.

"Good morning, Doctor," Park greets, ashing her cigarette in the nearby tray. "You look well."

The woman in-question scoffs, folding her arm across her lap, cigarette held in her opposite hand. "Fine morning for an interrogation, wouldn't you agree?"

"It's not an interrogation," Adler speaks up. "You're in possession of knowledge that will greatly benefit this investigation, that's all there is to it—"

"—Mr. Adler, don't take me for a fool. A change of scenery won't change the fact that if I chose to walk out of this room, I'd be promptly re-directed to my seat by the guards waiting outside. I know what an interrogation looks like."

_Never one to pull her punches—he respects that._

Hudson passes the file towards Park, skims through it while Dr. Trager takes another drag of her Camel, warily eyeing all three of them in rapid changes, maintaining a composure that has visible cracks in its visage, revealing a staggering amount of caution, anxiety. Surely, she's well aware of her purpose in being here, however, it's a matter of what they'll ask her that concerns her.

"As you're aware, your former patient was reported MIA following the events of Solovetsky," Hudson begins, taking a seat on Dr. Trager's left. "Weeks later, our Russian network reports that a woman matching her description is spotted at Kuzema, one-hundred miles northwest of the islands—leaving a massacre in her wake."

"Horrible business, I'm sure," comes the biting, dry remark of the good doctor. "Why should I care about a former patient? My obligations to her ended the day I was re-assigned."

"As true as that is, your detailed files following her treatment contain information crucial to her imminent re-capture and further termination," Hudson replies.

Termination. Speaks finality, offers no possibility of redemption—as it rightfully shouldn't.

Evidently, it strikes an ode within the good doctor, giving her pause as she glances sideways towards Hudson without moving a muscle, flickering between Adler and Park shortly thereafter. Something she hadn't expected to hear, regardless of the situation at hand.

"Enlighten me, Hudson?" She questions, smoke billowing between her lips and nose, ascending into the space between them.

"We believe that Bell is traveling somewhere distinctive to memory," Park speaks up, skimming towards a specific page—two dated photographs clung to the top corners (her Soviet brother, her dead sister), instantly recognizing several tidbits of information correlating to Bell's past life, yet contains its own blank spots, a missing link that would've bridged the divide, given them _exactly_ what they're looking for.

"In spite of the program's effects, key details remain unknown. Considering your proximity to the subject within the treatment's interval, we believe there are such details you were privy to that went unrecorded," Park explains. "We intend to find out what the subject informed you of before the situation becomes dire."

"You speak of her as if she's malleable, an object to bend and break to your design. _Subhuman_. It's degrading."

"She is an _**enemy**_ of the nation." His voice raises, prompts immediate attention from the rest of the table. Fists clenching, leaning across the table with icy, spiteful glares as his last resolve _shatters_ at the idea of her character being worth upholding, when she's nothing more than _destruction_ , a living embodiment of _everything_ he stands against. "As long as she is out there, she _**will**_ be treated as a _**hostile**_. Your professional opinions on the matter will _not_ change that, _Doctor—_ "

"— _Enough_."

Hudson's voice commands silence, and silence is what he receives, despite Adler's wishes against it. Left feeling unsatisfied at the sight of Dr. Trager's impassive expression, despite her momentary astonishment at his sudden outburst.

"Jaina, we don't have much time," Hudson starts again, turning to face her, "right now, we're laying out all cards on the table, in the hopes that you'll have an idea of where the subject is heading. We will handle the rest, but only if you help us. The severity of this issue is beyond whatever views you hold regarding our methods, beyond that of a petty quarrel—if Bell is going somewhere, we have to figure out where before she becomes an active threat to the United States and her interests."

_Oh, how she so wishes to object._

Palpable in her eyes, the tension, the _animosity_ festering within. Even without words, Dr. Trager's hesitance gives way to her fears, to utter terror at the idea of what might become of her beloved patient, of the one who had no business becoming quite so vital, so _poignant,_ to the good doctor. And with her fears, comes inevitable truth.

"I don't know where she's going." And it's earnest, spoken with certainty. "That being said... after the program's first trials, she reluctantly gave up a location. It could be what you're looking for, or it could be a fruitless endeavor—something I am sure you will discover, in time."

Reaching towards a file, which the good doctor created as a follow-up, a contingency to Park's extensive research during Bell's tenure. Searching and searching, until... a bated sigh, setting the file across from him and Park.

Typed out, simple, and direct... an idea worth entertaining. A possibility, the only needle left in their colossal haystack.

**Vologda, Russia.**

"Her birthplace," Trager elaborates, ashing her cigarette next to Park's. "As far as I'm aware, she has no living relatives to speak of. Nevertheless, it should point you in the right direction, assuming you choose to see it as a potential lead in your... _investigation_."

"Her brother was purportedly a recent addition to the Petropavlovsk Gulag," Park informs. "As recently as 1976, I believe."

1976\. Five years ago.

Coinciding with an attack on the gulag, leaving hundreds dead (guards and inmates alike; as if mere bystanders preventing the attack from reaching fulfillment)—a number of inmates were reported missing following the attack. If her brother was one such inmate, it could prove useful information.

And not just her brother— _Stitch_ , the Nova 6 chemist from Operation Rebirth... having gone missing in the weeks after the attack. Uncoincidental, perhaps.

Hudson seems to share the sentiment, if his expression is worth noting.

"Agent Park, I believe you possess information worth sharing with Dr. Trager, in a more private setting," Hudson says (an order in disguise, to which Park holds no objections towards), waiting until both women are beyond ear-shot. "Search up _everything_ you can on Vologda. Don't care how you do it—have Weaver get in-contact with our networks and contacts, learn as much as you can... and the _second_ we catch a breakthrough—you _will_ end it. No compromises, Russ."

"Compromises are beneath me, Hudson. I'll get in touch with Belikov, see if he can provide information about the gulag attack—list of prisoners, those who were reported either dead or MIA at the scene."

It's nothing concrete, as of yet. Although he considers himself a man inclined towards credible sources and well-developed plans, it's not a guarantee in his line of work. Work with the intel given, and the rest is up to chance. Improvisation, taking great risks in the name of the greater good.

So, until something tangible occurs, worth hauling ass to the ass-end of Russia... it's biding time. Waiting and seeing, albeit with one eye open.

Park has bountiful information worth bringing to the table, regarding the conditioning trials of MK-Ultra. Despite Bell's initial rejection, something caved in, allowing the programming to fester, took a piece of her soul, corrupting it with a single touch. Gave them exactly what they needed—a soldier, pliant and complacent.

And with Trager's research and insight into the nature of Bell's psyche... hell is within the old man's horizons, after all. Nothing he can say will make a difference, he'll die just as he lived—cannon fodder in the grand scheme of power.

So it seems their trip wasn't all for naught. Came to a splinter of fruition, and with it comes a restoration of ambition.

* * *

**Söderkulla, Finland - 4:30 pm**

_"Each night, without fail, she prayed for blue eyes. Fervently, for a year she had prayed. Although somewhat discouraged, she was not without hope. To have something as wonderful as that happen would take a long, long time—"_

"—Do you always read aloud when you've got nothing better to do?"

_Rude._

Nothing better to do. Implies it's a choice, despite being far from the truth.

Having finished her Marlboro pack and lacking her favored Harris novel, Toni Morrison's haunting insight into the mind of a broken child who wishes for ideal beauty (when ideal beauty is already within her grasp, despite the malicious lies of those around her, who manipulate her into such awful delusions of ugliness) has become the next best thing, heartbreaking story aside—so he is not one to speak of boredom.

At least she's _trying_ to occupy her time.

Helsinki is a half-hour drive, but to avoid potential tracking, they've been trekking across eastern Finland over the course of a week—never stopping in one place, give whiplash to those foolish enough to keep track of them, send more agents to infiltrate (CIA, KGB... doesn't matter, at this rate).

A run-down, dilapidated apartment is all they've got after Aguilar's plane broke down, needing immediate repairs they couldn't do without drawing attention, subsequently selling it for scrap parts, contributing to their resources surplus.

Despite her low funds of rubles (couldn't find the time to convert into euros), Aguilar's funds are plentiful, enough to keep them going until they reach Helsinki—presumably where their next mode of transportation awaits, if Warsaw is their prime destination.

"It's a habit," she says, setting the book aside, re-directing attention to the man with his eye constantly at the entry points, never letting his guard down (earning every cent of cash he'll undoubtedly receive at the end of his _protection detail_ ). "Helps me visualize the scenes—besides, it's not hurting anybody if I read aloud."

"If only the old man had the foresight to mention that detail. Could've spared me the headaches."

" _Hilarious_. I'm taking over watch, it'll give you something _better to do_ than grovel at me." Taking his Pelington 703—only to drop it, disproportion of strength in her hands providing immediate realization (and subsequent irritation) of the things she can no longer do, lacking in precision, dexterity.

"Pick it up," he says, sparing no glances as he busies himself with lighting a cigarette.

Words escape her, coming out in stuttered exhales, tinged with exasperation as she makes _miserable_ attempts at using her non-dominant, uninjured hand to grasp the handguard, injured left hand grasping the non-business end, a precaution in case it slips from her grasp. Unfortunately, her plan isn't as sound as it is in theory.

There it goes, another _loud_ clatter of the gun meeting hardwood floors—drawing irritated sighs and sideways glances from Aguilar, smoke wafting through his lips.

" _Christ_ , I'm not your father, I shouldn't have to—"

Goes silent upon noticing the bane of her existence, the justifiable extent of her inadequacy. Stitches healing, however, it prevents her from moving it just so—ligaments torn upon impact, tendons pulled taut across bruised, blemished skin. Stitches parallel on each finger, from knuckle to fingertip (hoping in time, they will heal just right... a hope which dies in her mouth with each passing day of disuse)... glaringly obvious, albeit likely impermanence—playing fair to an old man's medical prowess.

"It's fine, Bell. I'll take watch again—"

"— _No._ I'm not an invalid, so don't treat me as such."

Honoring her wishes, yet maintains a common courtesy in picking up the Pelington, positioning her non-dominant hand beneath the handguard, injured hand going beneath the butt of the gun—identical to her previous idea, except he re-directs the barrel to rest against the windowsill (concealed behind blue drapes, conveniently so), keeping it away from prying eyes, although within arms' reach.

A potential learning curve, only to face the improvisation curve. Clever.

"I'll relieve you in an hour—right now, I'll head into town, re-stock our supplies, get some authentic, cooked food instead of the boxed shit we've been living off of."

"I noticed an old car shop, several blocks down—can you check it out? See if it's worthwhile?"

A contemplative pause ensues, which undoubtedly means that Aguilar isn't opposed to the idea... just considering the danger of it, calculating if the risks are greater than the reward if he goes carries it out. One of (few) idiosyncrasies she's picked up on during their limited time together—by nature, he's a lone wolf, doesn't often relegate himself to the company of others, however, if the situation calls for such company, he's considerate, mindful.

Never does something without weighing out the upsides and downsides. His patience—although occasionally wears thin—is a testament to his character, beyond that of the soldier she's seen thus far. Reminds her of the old man... always on-guard, straightforward.

_Secretly hoping the man in question hasn't died yet, not when his mission hasn't been completed yet. Deserves to see it come to fruition._

"I'll check it out," he finally says, pulling his hood over his head—bulletproof vest conveniently hidden beneath blue cotton and polyester linings. "You know how to reach me if you need me."

As she does, holding up her newest radio in silent affirmation, nodding in farewell as he makes way outside, leaving a moderate rush of lukewarm air in his departure.

Not much to do, aside from keep watch. A concept in itself which is boring, in all honesty—the apartment speaks for itself, scarce furniture (save for two cots; his next to the window, hers conveniently placed out of direct sight from both windows and the door; a safety measure), their go-bags (one for weapons and ammo, the other for medical supplies and toiletries)—Aguilar's taken it upon himself to forge passports, drivers' licenses. Cash only, another pre-emptive measure.

Her passport is inconspicuous, save for the absence of a necessary photograph.

If she chooses to maintain her appearance, it will sound off alarm bells the moment she's discovered—even with their recent luck, having slipped between Russia and Finland with minimal issues, aside from the plane breaking down—and she's not taking risks anymore. Not after Kuzema.

They'll be looking for her as she is—long brown hair, curtain bangs, _distinctive_ scars, tattoos. Mangled left hand. American accent.

Perhaps, they'll be expecting her to change. A man like Adler, with years' worth of espionage and intellect at his back, oh, he'll consider _every_ possibility.

It isn't worth maintaining an appearance easy to spot, a sore thumb amongst the crowd.

Leaving the gun on Aguilar's cot (strewing her coat across it, a haphazard method of camouflage), keeping minimal pressure on her good leg as she makes way towards the medical bag, digging through it for two important things—scissors and hydrogen peroxide. Aside from her tattoos, her hair is all that remains of her life before the CIA, before MK-Ultra (and _Adler_ ); giving it up isn't an easy choice to make, but a necessary evil to endure.

Oh, she's not doing it alone, though. When Aguilar returns, she'll ask for assistance. Even if she knew how to, sutures on her hand are far from healed, not worth a possible chemical burn to aggravate its healing process. Play safe games, win safe prizes.

_That's not the saying, my dear girl. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes._

_It doesn't matter—it's the same thing, old man._

_If I am to ensure your survival, I might as well include common sense in that conjecture._

Leaving the scissors and peroxide on a nearby table, about to return to her previous post—until her foot catches on a loose floorboard, a loud **CRACK** resonating across the room, followed by her muttered curses. At least it wasn't a clean break, two halves barely conjoined by a hair-like sliver. Takes her several moments to regain her bearings, making attempts at pulling out her boot from between the floorboards. "Fuck's sakes," she hisses, gripping onto the table for balance, trying again.

A task which quickly proves itself a tedious one, considering her bad leg is caught in the crosshairs (making each tug and pull _incredibly_ painful), and her bad hand is useless when it comes to her attempts at bracing her strength to one side, pulling her leg in the opposite direction as the last resort.

"Fucking useless, fucking— _fuck!_ "

Temper flares, twisting and pulling until her leg (finally) breaks through wooden splinters, a strong force which knocks her right on her ass on-impact, her pained yelp echoing across the room.

Breathing heavily, just... staring. At the broken floorboards, screaming pain searing through her leg, vision blurring with unexpected, unwarranted tears. Not out of pain, no—utter frustration, an overwhelming tidal wave of emotions that washes over her, suffocating under its intensity, leaving her no choice but to cry, backing up against the kitchen island as her eyes wander downwards, basking in unrequited silence (save for her stifled sobs) with hunched shoulders.

_**"Bell."** _

Immediately looking up, eyes wide with fear, _recognition_ , instinctively holding up her 1911 in response.

Takes her less than several seconds to stand, ignoring how violently her hands shake. She knows that voice—it is the voice of her nightmares, it is the voice that reminds her of why she's fighting, belonging to the one who relentlessly hunts her with each passing day, leaving her no choice but to run because fighting is her last resolve, never the first option. Not anymore. **His** voice. Holds the answers she seeks, yet offers nothing but _anger_ _, hatred—_

_**"Look at you. So broken, so fragile... needing special handling, even now."** _

Disembodied, echoing across the walls, across the thin gossamers aligning its corners, spiderwicks tumbling and tussling, wind strewing it haphazardly about. Heart _aching_ with indescribable sensations, an unhealthy strand, both terror and rage alike. Unaware of her own surroundings, disassociating entirely from will, from agency.

Despite her racing heart, her footsteps remain steadfast, the last resort in her mind's shattered attempts at centering her to the earth.

_**"I will break you, Bell. Tear you apart, crush you into ash—and then I will rebuild you, an object of my design."** _

_"No,"_ she grits out, finger hovering above the trigger. "I won't allow you."

Backing up, backing into a _visceral, tangible_ form, heart _thundering_ wildly against her ribcage as sheer terror jumps out from her lips, falling to her knees just as she spins around—staring up into **his** face, fingers scrambling for purchase in the floor as **he** looms near. Fury wild in his eyes, along with something indiscernible in her terror-hazy vision, centering around the figure standing before her _—_ _(itsnotreal **itsnotreal** )_

He steps forward, smokescreen aviators an emotionless front, stifling what remains of his fury.

_**"Damaged, broken, precious little thing... you are mine to destroy—and you always will be."** _

_"No!"_

Her voice speaks absolution, in its hoarse, abrasive nature, scraping against her esophagus like glass shards, crackling under the weight of her terror. Fingers trembling as they grasp her 1911, bringing it to eye-level with certainty, non-dominant hand taking the reigns in place of her injured one. Aligning a perfect shot, pulling the trigger—

—Translucent gossamers, red-saturated crystallines replace silver-laden bullets, breaking apart into white embers upon its first contact with his chest.

Coincides with the door swinging open, revealing Aguilar in a manic, frantic state. Gun drawn at eye-level, searching, seeking. Until his eyes find her broken form, withering away at the end of the hallway... gun in her lap, staring at the spot where Adler stood moments before, disappearing in the wake of Aguilar's sudden presence.

"I heard a scream," Aguilar says, rushing to her side—skimming her over for possible injuries, "Bell, _look at me_ —what happened?"

Fingers brushing against her jaw, forcing eye contact, an act which breaks her fugue state, frantic terror fading into unrest. Her mind brings itself from the brink of madness, and with it, comes relieving safety as she meets Aguilar's concerned gaze, placates her racing heart.

"Bell, what happened?"

**_"You can't solve every problem with a bullet, Bell."_ **

_Go to hell,_ she screams within the recesses of memory, forcing the idea of him behind a red door, keep his violence and wrath from mutilating her soul.

"Nothing," she rasps, breaking away from contact, reminding herself to breathe, that she overreacted once again, "I'm fine. It's fine."

He wants to call her bluff, she can tell. It's easily discernible, holstering his gun in an unhurried manner. "Alright. Considering we're outside the city limits, I'm going to assume nobody heard your scream—just to be safe, though, I'll take a look outside after I bring in the supplies. And our dinner."

"S'long as it's not the boxed shit," she mutters, to which he barks out a laugh.

Despite her calming heartbeat, and the bells having long since ceased its incessant ringing, she catches herself looking over... towards where **he** stood, a lasting imprint in the recesses of her mind. Never forgotten, always ensuring its survival. An everlasting constant; a haunting figurehead of her nightmares, deciding her every move from hereon.

Solovetsky... Kuzema... Söderkulla... none of it matters.

**_"Precious, fragile thing..."_ **

"No," she whispers into the emptiness.

* * *

Dinner is a brief affair—salmon soup, along with garlic mashed potatoes.

Highly recommended, according to the _lovely_ attendant at the restaurant he bought it from. Sitting across from each other, eye-contact scarce and conversation non-existent. Guns in their holsters, always on-guard (as they rightfully should be, no matter the circumstances; dinner doesn't change that), the only constant being the scrap of utensils against glass plates.

Aguilar didn't find anything worthwhile during his routine check. A relief, not that she's told him.

_(secretly wondering she actually fired her gun; having been too inundated with terror-stricken delirium to ask, certainly not bothering to ask now, even at rest)._

"We're leaving tonight," he says, the first to break the silence. "We'll only make two stops—the car shop and Helsinki. So once we're done here, this hole in the wall is going up in flames. Make sure you don't leave anything behind, traceable or otherwise."

"Can you cut my hair?"

Forkfuls of meat and potatoes pause above his plate, a pointed stare directed at her. "Finish eating, and I will."

It takes her half the time to finish eating, compared to his leisurely pace. Once the plates are tossed into the trash, he takes a towel from the toiletries bag, pressing it into her hands. Directs her to remove her shirt, tie a small knot with two corners around her neck, secure it at the base of her spine. An easy task with minimal struggle.

He fills up a nearby bucket—using spare bottles of ice water— bringing her head into it until her hair's soaked through. She brushes through knots, until her hair is malleable to the touch, which makes his job that much easier.

Her ideas are vague, genuinely having no idea of where to begin. _I'll keep the bangs, I suppose._ _Cut it to my shoulders?_

Twenty-two inches of brown hair, and it takes him roughly ten minutes to cut it thoroughly—at the end, she's got twelve inches left, curtain bangs framing her forehead, stopping just below her temples. It's not enough, but she'll apply the peroxide another time.

After packing up their supplies, disposing of the bucket and the remnants of chopped hair, they torch the building.

It fades into amber embers, a lasting memory searing in her mind as she witnesses the aftermath through the side mirrors of the truck—Helsinki just within their horizons.

* * *

**unknown location**

_"What the hell do you mean, he's gone?!"_

The building goes up in flames, and with it, the remnants of Nova 6 billowing across the night sky—gas masks being their only saving grace from the massacre, although the same can't be said for the agents who died in the building, who were supposed to keep an eye on the old man, prevent an attack from occurring in the first place.

"I left for five minutes, Adler," Weaver starts, "an explosion went off, I rush back to see my agents choking on their own breath, others burned alive."

"Where is the old man?" Hudson speaks up, anger barely concealed behind an insubstantial wall of impatience. "He's one of our only leads on Bell, Weaver— _what the_ _hell_ _happened?"_

" _ **Perseus**_."

It comes out in a harsh, resounding snarl, though neither Weaver nor Hudson speak the nuanced wrath, something only America's Monster could muster.

Kneeling down, fingers grasping at a fallen patch of fabric, bears distinctive red, gold, and black hues, familiar black sigil as its effigy. A symbol, a representation of destruction, a collective ideology hellbent on toppling the Western world—establish itself as the one and only superpower, an imperium.

"Old man's back in Soviet clutches now," Adler says, giving the patch to Hudson, "did you see anything after the attack, Weaver?"

"Just a warbird bearing that insignia," he replies, watching with disconcertion as the building topples into ash and cinders, stray wisps of the gas fading away. "Soldiers dragging a body away with them. You think Perseus orchestrated this attack?"

"For one old man? No," Hudson notes, "it has to be something else—Perseus wouldn't stoop to desperate measures over a liability."

"Bears the sigil, carries out the orders. Cross-reference every record we have on Perseus and known associates—Vologda is our only lead at this point, and I'm not leaving anything up to chance," Adler's voice carries authority, _obsession_ , a constant burning away at his last resolve, his willpower to cooperate.

An attack was launched on _American soil_ ; the first since Solovetsky. Bearing Perseus' sigil—a warning, enunciated with the release of Nova 6 in a burning building.

Fire would've been too pure of a death. Always has to be tainted with green dregs of neodymium, rhenium and sulfur.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Russ," Hudson lowly says, already in-motion behind Weaver, "get your intel, re-submit a requisition for your team, charter a plane to Vologda—if you're right about this, if Perseus ordered the deaths of a dozen agents over one old man... nothing's off the table."

"I'll make sure the coroners compile reports of the bodies to recover from the ashes—see if there's a match with the old man. What are you going to do?"

"I've got to make a few calls. If this is the first of many attacks, I won't take the risk—the President needs to know. You get Belikov on the line and get to work."

"I'll have him on the line within the hour. Send the President my regards."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's that!
> 
> apologies for the wait on this one, and it's not the greatest thing but ahhh beggars can't be choosers lol. let me know your thoughts down below, and i'll see you soon :)
> 
> (ps. i kinda envision bell's new do as halsey's choppy 'do in her "nightmare" vid. it's badass XD)


	5. lost the will (lost my way)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> day three in helsinki, featuring a confused ex-soldier, her spanish pseudo-bodyguard and her slowly waning sanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll be honest, i'm not quite sure where i'm gonna end this story, but i appreciate every one of you for sticking through five chapters of nonsense lol it's a huge factor in why i'm keeping this story going, even with the doubt i have about it.
> 
> with my classes keeping me busy, i don't think my two-day update schedule's working anymore, but once i catch a break, i'll see if i can give it another try :) until then, please enjoy this first (of several) chapters where it's mostly focusing on the injury/mind-control recovery process, with the occasional pov change.
> 
> the song i have in mind for this arc is "ocean" by goldfrapp and dave gahan (depeche mode lead singer, he's a fucking legend in my opinion). expect lyrics from this song to be included for a few chapters from hereon unless i state otherwise. give it a listen, it's hauntingly beautiful.

_**i lost the will too, i've lost my way** _

_**i've lost this ocean;** _

_**i poisoned me** _

**\- Goldfrapp, ft Dave Gahan, "Ocean"** **-**

* * *

**unknown location**

_With bruised, inkblot eyes, and a hazy gaze, two old friends are reunited._

An unexpected, yet wholly welcomed revelation. Eyes speaking immeasurable gratitude, staring up into a mismatching pair (wishing he remembers the face it belongs to, cloaked in a visor of rubber and neoprene), bearing tattoos reminiscent of a time long past, a time worth forgetting. Black hood stretches across a haunting visage, shielding his weak gaze from a dim, irritating fluorescent light flickering above, dog tags clinking.

One lone hand stretches out from his side—designed in ink identical to those across his forearms, paints his knuckles, fingertips—ensnares the old man's hand in a firm grasp, strong and steadfast in comparison to the frailty which poisons the old man's bloodstream, a consequence of captivity.

"It is good to see you," he rasps, forcing back a rattling cough settling in his chest, ready to burst at any given moment. "That said, we both know our orders—allowing me to live was a mistake on your part, my friend."

"And leave a good friend to an unfitting death? _Nyet._ " Separates their hands, folding his arms across his chest, an air of hubris to him. "Rest, old man—you are not done yet."

A loyal, prideful fool, to the very end.

Defies his orders in assurance of a higher purpose in-store, despite the old man's... _extensive_ injuries.

Won't give up on him, not yet—not when those responsible for their respective grievances are still breathing, eagerly awaiting their next chance to properly silence them—for good, it would seem. Ensure the old man's survival will not happen with the next unfortunate soul in their clutches, and kill any who oppose and reject the West's fanatical ideas, their collective way of life.

As his old friend turns his back to him, an overwhelming, burning desire captures his attention, warrants an immediate need-to-know. "Vikhor," he calls out.

Head immediately turns in his direction, upon hearing a name he no longer cares to bear, one the old man takes great care in remembering, ensuring its survival, no matter what organization they serve, or how many dog tags clink and jangle against his throat—that's not who he is, not to the old man, puts disrespect on the years they've endured.

Withholds another wretched, vile cough, replaces it with the only thing he cares to know, more so than his friend's orders concerning him, or why he's still alive.

Wanting to know the status of his mission—and yet, there's so much more to it than that, an oversimplification of his circumstances.

"Is she safe?"

Years of violence, shared bloodshed, and lifetimes' worth of wartime accumulate into a specific skill, which the old man's picked up on long before his friend chose to wear a mask (oh, Vikhor was always a stoic one, and yet there's a crack in his reserve, in the elaborate foundations built during his tenure at Petropavlovsk: a reminder of his anarchist nature)—his eyes give away his emotions, and everything in between.

Nothing untoward is present—nothing that could warrant fear, or cause for great concern. Just icy, detached apathy, a practiced effort on Vikhor's part. Means one of two things: either she's dead, or he doesn't know the answer to that question.

Old man's hoping it isn't the former, not when his promises, his mission, is left unfulfilled.

"We'll know soon enough," Stitch replies, a response which gives way to momentary relief... only to be stifled by the immense weight of agony crushing the old man's ribcage, pulling his sinews apart with each harrowing breath. "Rest, my friend," he repeats, "we will talk another time—I have to make a call."

"Send my regards," he grits out, eventually succumbing to uneasy rest, broken with intolerable dismay, wondering if she'll ever make it to Poland. _Alive._

He made a promise, after all—her safety is of paramount importance, and he's already failed in that regard.

Once he stumbles out of the arms of darkness and failure, he will ensure that the suffering and torture the CIA exacted upon him will not be in vain, that it will inevitably lead him back to her, so that he can uphold his promise, to the letter.

Until then, he's holding Navarro accountable to meet his end of the bargain.

* * *

**Helsinki, Finland - April 17th, 1981**

"Again."

_God, he's insufferable._

Clenching her fists once more, she firmly roots herself in-place, balls of her feet securing her to the ground with her legs apart, arms folded at the elbows. Raises her fists at eye-level, never removing her concentration from the hanging, fire-red punching bag before her, having taken the brunt of her forceful hits over the course of an hour—Aguilar's tedious attempts at helping her regain usage in her hand and foot.

Waits for his cue, ignoring how he bristles past her, just within her peripheral vision, yet not quite there, not distractive.

"Adjust your stance to the right," he orders, nodding approvingly at her compliance. "Straighten your posture and adjust the positioning of your arms—you want your non-dominant side outwards rather than your dominant, provides you with a solid defense and the opportunity to land a good hit."

"Not like the punching bag's going to hit back—"

"—Do as I ask, Bell. Punching bags are stationary; enemies are not. Spare me the antics and focus on your task."

Her task, which should've been over and done with an hour ago, as he said.

Surely, he'll understand when someone's limitations are being tested, bordering on impatience (training on an empty stomach is ill-advised, and yet... here she is, two hours into her tutelage... noticeably famished and irritated), wanting nothing more than to relax, an indulgence she hasn't found time to wallow in, as of late.

Adjusts her stance with pointed side-eyes, she brings her right side forward, straightens her spine, preparing to lunge forward on his command.

Situates her elbows towards her body, so as to avoid a lecture on 'chicken wing arms', as he did during yesterday's training session, ensuring her pointer and middle knuckle can take the brunt impact against the dummy (keeping her ring and ulnar knuckle away from the force of impact and her stitches intact).

Aguilar doesn't expect her to fight with her broken hand, not yet. Even being able to clench her hand into a fist is remarkable, a splinter of good fortune after weeks of disuse.

"On my mark," he says, folding his arms behind his lower back, analyzing her stance.

_One... two... three... five seconds pass before he breaks the silence._

"Go."

Lunging forward, she rotates her torso parallel to winding up her non-dominant hand, swings her fist directly into the dummy's jaw (ignores the inevitable burn that comes with hitting two-hundred pounds of sand, composing neatly within its leathery casing), keeping her punches with her dominant hand light, in lieu of her healing sutures.

Until then, she redirects the power in her punches to her right hand, swinging with imprecise motions, repeated motions— _one, two, three four—_

"Straighten your posture," he swiftly reminds her, moving behind the bag to keep it immobile, within the direct line of contact between fist and leather.

Adjusts her stance in-between strong, forceful hits, breath coming out in harsh, brief spurts, not staying still for longer than a second. And when Aguilar requests a stronger force of impact from her left hand, she hesitates just so, wondering if it'll make or break her chances of a full recovery.

"If it becomes unbearable, you can stop," he tells her, "don't feel pressure to appease me if it guarantees a severe injury—I won't push your limits like that, Bell."

... No harm in trying, then.

Solidifies her half-hearted fist, brings her arm backward... preparing herself for a brief, firm hit to the weakest point of the bag (where a majority of her hits have landed without consequence), a safety precaution. After momentary hesitance, she lunges forward... and fist meets leather within seconds, an impact which has the bag jolting in Aguilar's grasp, reverberates across the safehouse.

A pregnant, heaving pause ensues, weighing out the possibilities of a broken hand, splintered tendons, or ruptured sutures.

.....

........

_Nothing._

Just an unpleasant, but tolerable tingle in her knuckles, seeping into her bones. A quick sensation, gone as soon as it came.

In fairness, she didn't hit as hard as her previous strikes, just a mild hit to the center of the punching bag. Despite that, excitement billows up in her chest, festers across her body, bringing forth elation and relief in knowing that she hasn't completely fucked up her hand on her partner's whim and demand. That recovery isn't few and far between, a high probability within her horizons, after all.

"Well done," he finally says, hint of a smile ghosting his face, "shit—Bell, that was amazing."

Brings an immediate smile to her face, as well, enjoys a brief moment where Aguilar Navarro smiles a genuine smile.

"I wanna try again," she hurriedly replies, too overwhelmed with her success to comprehend how dangerous that could be, that one mistake could universally fuck up her chances, that perhaps... once is good enough. Utterly ecstatic in comparison to four days ago, in Söderkulla, after dropping a gun that could've gone off at a moment's notice, put them on the run once again, after her bad leg went through a loose floorboard and knocked her on her ass like a bag of feathers.

_After seeing him... seeing how easily her fractured mind severs her ties to reality in an instant._

Surely, he can't fault her for enjoying a rare, opportune moment of celebration, wanting to see if more is possible.

"... Maybe another time," he says, "I want to test your high kicks, see how well you can utilize upper body strength without continuous strain. Return to your original stance and plant your feet to the ground. I will teach you how to execute a proper hit without injuring yourself."

 _Bide my time, then,_ she thinks to herself, assuming her previous stance, fists clenched and at eye-level, once again.

"Chicken-wing arms," he reminds, absently adjusting the punching bag to an immobile stance before her, drifting towards her left side and just within peripheral vision.

"I held it no longer than a second, calm down."

"Well, one second makes the difference between survival or death, Bell. It takes one second to live, and one second to die—never assume the fight is over just because enemies aren't lunging at you. Fix your chicken-wing arms."

Folding his hands across his lower back, analyzing her in hopes of catching something else out-of-place, in need of swift and immediate correction. When it appears her stance is satisfactory, he relaxes just so, no doubt preparing to give her another intense lecturing on what is expected of her amidst the final stretch of training (with any luck, it's final; she's two lectures away from lunging at him).

"On the wind back, I want you to level your non-dominant side parallel to the bag—it will distribute the force of impact evenly, prevent you from seriously injuring yourself," he explains carefully. "Lift your knee and turn your foot simultaneously, hitting the bag with your shin, not your foot—you'll generate a heavier impact and an intact foot, in the process. Do _not_ forget to rotate your hip and lower body towards the bag as you strike."

_Level non-dominant side parallel, rotate upon striking._

_Lift her knee, turn her foot concurrently._

_Strike with her shin, not her foot._

Shouldn't be an issue, injuries notwithstanding. Surely, Aguilar will forgive a slight miscalculation on her first go at roundhouse kicking, or her lack of flexibility after months of disuse sleeping away weeks of valuable time in a dilapidated hut.

Maintaining her stationary position, fists at eye-level, focusing solely on the leather bag squeaking and groaning in its ceiling mount, awaiting Aguilar's imminent command, noticing him rolling up his sleeves within her peripheral vision, eyes on her form.

"As you pull your leg back for the strike, I want you to breathe in. Exhale sharply through your nose as you swing forward, up until your shin meets leather. With the distribution of force as you turn, it keeps oxygen in your lungs, and your mind sharp," he explains.

Leans against the wall, analyzing her one final time... sets her nerves alight with impatience, wanting to get through with the final stretch and eat something authentic, cooked over a burner instead of nuked in a microwave, cold in the center. _God,_ the thought of it is abhorrent.

Prepares her wind-back stance, inhaling a deep gush of air until it hurts to keep going, holding it there... waiting, biding time. Keeping her shoulder parallel to the bag, bent at the knee in anticipation of her forceful strike.

Oh, she's glad she doesn't have to wait long—moments after she pauses, he speaks up.

"Go."

Swings forward as high as possible—exhaling as she does, turning her body towards the bag as she swings her leg upwards—expectations of success set quite low, considering her mishap at Söderkulla left her leg in worse shape than before. The bag rattles and groans, and she could've sworn she saw the ceiling mount _jolt_ under the brunt force of impact, sending the bag across the room, hitting the wall with a dense **thud**...

... silence ensues, thereafter.

Immediately, she looks towards him, incredulous, _excited_ at the knowledge that she hasn't ruined her recovery chances, even while swinging at a heavy bag. A small victory, yes, but worth the mental victory march going off in the recesses of her mind, small smile playing at the corner of her lips. "I did it," she says, in disbelief.

He's... smiling? Or the equivalent of a smile when it comes to a man like Aguilar—always stoic, never indulges in emotional responses often.

"Excellent job, _campanilla_ ," he compliments, reaching forward to steady the swaying, heaving bag. "You've earned yourself a days' worth of rest. Tomorrow morning, we'll pick up training after breakfast, focus on your upper body strength and cardio. Until then, you've got the day to yourself."

"See? I'm not completely an invalid." Oh, she's teasing, leaning against the wall next to him, unwrapping her bandages in steady, slow motions.

"Never said you were. Now go on, off to the shower—you smell awful."

"I blame my teacher and his _rigorous_ training sessions."

_"Hilarious."_

Rolls her eyes skyward, complying regardless (not without a customary one-finger salute, on her way out), after all, he isn't wrong. Pride prevents her from admittance, closing the door gently behind her as she starts up the hot water. After weeks of cold baths in Murmansk (comprised of a bucket and ice water, straight from the Barents Sea), her brief time in Kuzema (don't even start on Söderkulla—the goddamn shower was broken; entirely useless)...

... oh, to feel warm water on sore muscles and aching bones is _heavenly._

It shouldn't feel like a luxury, a selfish indulgence... but it does, and perhaps that's a testament to the harsh way of life she's been forced to tolerate, if something as essential as clean, running water is few and far between while on the run.

Her mind wanders beyond the boundaries of time and space, retreating inward into things she hasn't considered before, beyond a small instance.

How within the span of weeks, she's been in Russia and Finland, running, _fighting_ for her life, all with a broken hand, crippled leg, and a Spanish pilot-soldier-assassin, who has spoken the bare minimum of information regarding his life beyond his obligations to the old man, his career in the Spanish Army.

She's caught onto several things, as of late—he has a little sister, Alba. An engineer, although he hasn't seen her since she moved to America ten years prior.

His father was a soldier, not unlike him, and died fighting for his country when Aguilar was a boy. Whenever that was. Nicolas, he said was his name.

Aside from such small tidbits and her limited capacity to fill in the blanks, Aguilar's another mystery in her life that doesn't need solving, not when there's much to discover about her own life, beyond that of MK-Ultra and its capricious, suffocating restraints on her memory. Perhaps she'll find it in her to ask more questions, at a more convenient time, enjoy what fickle and little freedom she has until the hunters come calling.

When she finishes, an immediate rush of flavors and spices greets her senses, although it isn't unpleasant, rather welcoming. Saffron, thyme, rosemary, to name a few.

Aguilar's making good use of the apartment's stove, working overtime on an undoubtedly delectable meal, if his cooking skills are any indication. What few times he's cooked, it's always been a welcomed change from takeout, snacks, and MREs—even puts the late Lazar's skills to the test, although she'll never admit it to Aguilar, give him an unnecessary pride boost in their ever-constant battle of wits.

As of last week, he's top contender for first place.

"Smells amazing," she compliments, hoisting herself onto the chair situated at the island counter.

"I have to agree—it's my saving grace from the scent of sweat and blood."

"Are you going to reveal your cooking secrets, yet?"

"Never," he laughs, fixing her a moderate amount in a glass bowl (he managed to buy a small set of cutlery and crockery two days prior), setting it before her in a hazy, delectable mesh of spices, chicken, rice, and grilled vegetables, adeptly cooked into a broth, of sorts. "Something blue from home— _P_ _aella valenciana._ "

As expected, her first taste of his cooking never fails to impress, leaves a pleasant aftertaste despite its biting scald. Judging by the noticeable twitch of his lips, he wants to smile upon seeing her enjoyment of dinner, yet stops himself short to indulge in his own bowl, sitting directly across from her on another chair.

Dinner's always spent in comfortable silence, which she prefers in place of irritating attempts at conversation and small talk. Takes up too much time and thought process.

He talks when he needs to—always to inform her of their plans, going forward in their journey southward-bound.

Oftentimes, it is her who initiates the polite conversation, finding it comparable, distinctively better in comparison to small talk.

_When did your sister graduate?_

**_I'm not sure... must've been long after she left home._ **

_What was the first plane you ever mastered flying?_

**_A '56 Cessna 172 Skyhawk—you never forget your first._ **

_How old are you?_

**_Older than you—stop asking questions and finish eating._ **

It's cause for concern, how he addresses her, at times. Like a child, at the behest of a scolding father, with clipped sentences and passive-aggressive side-eyes.

Something to make note of and remind him _not_ to continue doing for the foreseeable future—if he is to remain her protective detail until she either reunites with the old man (wherever he may be, hoping he's far from death's clutches, even now), or accomplishes her southward journey to Poland... to Stitch.

To whoever pulls the masked man's strings.

Even with the tidbits she pries out of him at odd intervals, she has a lurking, suspicious feeling that will never change, that Aguilar Navarro is a forever unsolved mystery, a walking enigma that needs a stronger (better) mind to assemble all the missing shards and pieces of him.

Perhaps she'll ask the old man.

Dinner finishes on a quiet note, and they part ways into their separate corners of the apartment—she goes upstairs, towards the dilapidated office, which she's aptly made into her bedroom, leaving Aguilar to his own devices in the parlor section of the house, faint, muffled thuds of his fists against the punching bag heard from her room.

Slips into bed with bated breath, exhaling as her body compresses into the mattress and staring into the ceiling with muted, blank thoughts.

Helsinki's been good to them over the course of four days, and although that's not much to celebrate, she believes the circumstances call for such needless things.

Aside from Aguilar's training sessions, late nights on watch or brief errand runs (which Aguilar's taken up sole responsibility in handling, against her wishes; cabin fever is a dreadful force to be reckoned with, even in the hardest hearts and toughest soldiers), this apartment's become the closest thing to home.

Off-white, greying walls, cold hardwood floors, dingy windows. Perfect, little humble abode. Temporary, but humble.

At least the water pressure is lovely. Could've been worse.

Reaching into her nightstand, pulling _the Bluest Eye_ into her grasp (as best as one can with a crippled hand), resuming where she left off. Chapter six. Spring has come.

Claudia is a fighter, through and through—not unlike Pecola in terms of suffering abuse, despite Claudia having grown up into a loving, close-knit family. She supposes that's what makes Claudia a fighter; having something, someone to fight for, a result of the environment she was raised into. Fingers steadying against dog-eared pages, keeping the novel's spine aligned against her upper thighs as she re-reads the prior scene.

Frieda and Claudia. Sisters.

" _He…picked at me_. **_Picked at you?_** _**You mean like Soaphead Church?** Sort of."_

Reads aloud, business per usual. Skims through dialogue, retraces her steps backwards... reading, re-reading, finding she just _can't_ concentrate, not with the white noise rattling around her mind, huffing out a soft curse, setting the book atop her nightstand. Right back to the ceiling, it is.

That, and the dulcet sounds of Aguilar beating the bag to a bloody pulp, which so happens to be right below her room, amplifying the noise reverberation.

"Fucking fuck," she whispers, kicking her foot out towards the ground, repetitively hitting it until the noise stops. Good, he's listening. "Shut up," she raises her voice.

...

.....

The noise resumes at a louder volume, bag groans on its hinges, sounding good and ready to collapse from the brute force of his fists.

_Oh, what a bastard._

"I hate you," she mutters aloud to nobody in particular, although he hears it all the same, falters in his repetitive hits just so (a hushed laugh, to go with it), until the repetition continues and she musters up enough energy to make way downstairs, past Aguilar and his obnoxious smirk in-between heavy strikes against leather, until she's out into the uncertain, tepid mandible of spring, with its petrichoral afternotes, grey-blue clouds, whispers of rain against her skin.

Despite his attempts otherwise, she's made a habit out of infrequent smoking breaks, no matter the weather. Today's no different, flickering her silver Zippo lighter until the slow, biting burn of nicotine sears into her lungs, leaves its footnote in fragile capillaries and muscle.

Situation calls for it, sometimes. It gets overwhelming, being on the run, having little to no idea as to what's in store for her, aside from what little is given.

Aguilar doesn't know anything beyond what the old man chose to disclose—it's an important task and he'll be paid a generous sum upon successfully delivering her to Poland, and Stitch... _God, he's so distinctive, yet inexplicable, perplexing._ If only that _fucking_ mask wasn't in the way, perhaps she'd understand how she knows him, _where_.

_Not so weak and fragile as I remember. Good._

If only she could share the sentiment.

All the more justifiable that he won't be so easy to divulge her true intentions in Poland, or why he and the old man's gone to great lengths in maintaining her survival. Waiting, holding back necessary truth until a necessary situation (whenever that'll be; at this rate, unfortunately, highly unlikely), however her patience wears thin, pulling muscle and skin taut across bone with irritation, unknowingly biting through her cigarette until its smoldering cherry hits her in the toe, burns her in one quick swoop.

"Fucks' sakes," she curses, reflexively kicking her foot outward. _"Ow."_

_**"Bell."** _

_Oh, fuck no._

Hair stands on ends, forces her spine to straighten out as goosebumps stretch across every inch of available skin at the mere sound of **his** voice _—oh, he's not real. Not real!  
_

"Go away," she says, voice tinging dangerously dismal, close to _terror,_ "I don't want you here."

Unlike her previous encounter, he doesn't sound angry. He sounds... normal. Calm. Like he's got all the time in the world to belittle her, to grind her bones into powder, haunt her nightmares like it's his favorite past-time. A calm before the storm, no doubt.

**_"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you."_ **

"Bullshit. Go away."

**_"You're trying to figure it out, I can tell. What it all means, why this is happening to you. Solving a very big puzzle without all the pieces intact."_ **

Her boots shriek against wet floorboards, finding herself face-to-face with a tangible, visceral form. Smokescreen aviators, scarred cheek, lacking a cigarette between its lips—staring down at her with wicked delight, just visible through aviator lenses, lip curling upward in a mocking facsimile of a smirk. Delights at her reactions, despite how utterly _bizarre_ it must look to any who happen to stumble upon them together (metaphysically speaking, at least).

Biting the inside of her cheek, trying her damnedest to blink away frustrated tears, stifle the rising cacophony of bells against her cerebral cortex, almost as loud and profound as her racing heartbeat pulsating against her ribcage.

"It's _your_ fucking fault," she accuses, sounding so utterly childish, yet stands her ground against her traitorous mind. "I didn't ask for this, you know? Not a damn thing! I don't remember anything beyond what I was given, and those are lies, all manipulation and poison by your design—"

_**"—You weren't a saint long before we found you, Bell. I understand, though. You need someone to blame that isn't yourself, when you're just a stupid little girl playing at soldier."** _

Anything to justify the wages, surely. Adler didn't do it for his country, that much is absolutely certain. How else did he come to be known as _America's Monster_ rather than _America's Savior?_

Her foot aches with tender pulsates of molten heat, undoubtedly a result of her simmering cigarette, jerked somewhere across the apartment balcony. Stifles a shiver as a gust of chilly air hits her, trees rustling about as she tries to block it out, wish it away into obscurity. Its expression doesn't falter, remains every iota of entitled, mocking smiles full of teeth and malice.

But there's a hint of green in those blue eyes—if she didn't know any better, she'd call it ambition.

_**"If you want answers, all you have to do is ask."** _

"What gives you the idea that I'll ask _you?"_

 ** _"You wouldn't,"_** the caricature laughs, an unfamiliar sound to her ears, as Adler would never laugh. _**"You're a prideful woman, I'll give you that. I'll spare you the mental somersaults and give you what you're looking for... as well as I can, being the... how'd you phrase it? 'The voice of your nightmares'."**_

_How cognizant of it, knowing her every intricate thought._

Reaches into her packet for another cigarette, making sure she doesn't drop it a second time on her foot. Zippo crackles to life, just so, and she makes a mental reminder to snag another one from the nearest shop on their way out of Helsinki, with any luck, in several days. Aguilar believes it's safe, considering the country's neutral stance amidst the Cold War—

—but she knows better; neutrality is just a formality to the CIA, can easily be written off and buried in secrecy.

"A disembodied voice can't tell me more than I already know—I've been shut out of my own mind, and it's infuriating. I can't remember anything," she explains, turning back towards the sky, away from the figment's wandering eyes, its prying ears, "nobody else cares enough to tell me... there's nowhere to look anymore."

_**"I'll be the first to tell you that you're not looking in the right place, Bell."** _

... Well. Where else is there to look?

Turns back towards the figment, confusion warping her expression.

_**"Think about it, Bell. Your mind shut you out, well... that tells you it doesn't know anymore than you do. So look elsewhere."** _

"Aguilar doesn't know anything," she notes, more to herself, composing a mental list of any and all possibilities. "I've asked the old man many times, and the answer never changes: _in due time, my dear girl._ I'm not about to find religion, so I've got nothing else to consider. Thanks for trying, though." Her voice drips in saccharine, mocking sweetness—oh, why is it coming towards her?

Not-Adler walks towards her right side, soundless and swift as the trees rustle against the wind. Stares at her like it's trying to figure her out, though it surely knows everything without fault. Since when did it take off the aviators?

**_"You haven't been paying attention if you think you're out of options, Bell. Start with where it all began, and the rest will come."_ **

"God, not that shit again," she grits out, pointing accusatory fingers at the figment (evidently unfazed by her frustrated outburst). "Not everything has to be so fucking cryptic, so enigmatic. I deserve to know the fucking truth!"

_**"Maybe so. But I'm just the messenger—I'll leave it to you to start looking."** _

"What—you haven't told me where to look," stutters over her words, left hand twitching incessantly, for no apparent reason at all.

_It just fucking smirks at her._

_**"I wouldn't know** **—I'm just the messenger."**_

Her lips curl upward, a vicious snarl scorching hectares of wrath in the pit of her stomach. Immediately turns and reaches for the nearest object—a Mason jar, filled with cigarette butts, soot and ash (her de-facto ashtray)—hauling it above her head for all of two seconds, grits out a furious, _"Motherfucker!"._

As it stands, launching a glass jar through a figment of your own design doesn't end well.

And once the glass jar touches its chest, it disappears in a gust of white ash, just as glass shatters against the stone wall, sending the contents of it flying about, flicking ash into soft black hair.

And the repetitive sounds—which she's just realized was still ongoing, despite her raised voice against an inanimate, fictitious one—immediately halts, rushed footsteps immediately following suit, until the door opens behind her, Aguilar's heavy breathing grounding her to reality.

"What the hell are you doing?" His gun is drawn at his hip, brushing up against her side as he analyzes the situation (or lack thereof), holstering it only when rustling trees and pied flycatchers chirping about are the only sounds left, glass shards crush under him. "Jesus—come here before you cut your foot on the glass."

Large, tattooed hands grasp her waist, easily lifting her off the ground and swiveling her behind him, oh, but she's still mulling over Not-Adler's words, mind running amok in frustration, anger.

"Why did you do that?" He asks, facing her. "Bell, look at me— _don't_ do that shit again. I thought you were in danger."

"I wasn't," she dryly replies, "it just... slipped. Sorry."

A lie, which he sees right through, just as he did back in Söderkulla—only this time, he dares to voice his thoughts, openly challenge her.

"I don't believe you."

Notices how her eyes widen just so, only to turn his back to her, start cleaning up the mess of glass and ash at his feet. Doesn't seem to care much what she intends to do, even as she closes the door behind her.

She makes way towards her room, once again finding herself staring at the off-white ceiling until the rays of sunlight dwindle through storm clouds, a small beacon of reassurance despite herself. Curling into herself, under warm sheets... drifting off into fitful sleep, as her thoughts still cling to the words of an apparition, restores her innate sense of curiosity, her desire to understand and ascertain what she intends to know.

At least it's better than nothing— _start with where it all began, and the rest comes later._

_Whatever that means._

* * *

_Glass clinks and chimes together, a light and dainty sound easily swallowed up by his words._

"Something is happening to her," Aguilar speaks quietly into his radio, as quietly as he can with gossamer-thin walls. "And I'm afraid that if we wait any longer, whatever ails her will only worsen. I can have my plane fixed within the week, we can make the journey in one trip."

 _"You know it is not possible,"_ comes the usual, apathetic response, _"you are expected to be received by a contact of mine within the week, we cannot afford to deviate from the plan. You will be suitably compensated upon arrival, if that is your concern."_

"Money isn't an issue for me—the old man will have my head if I allow something to happen to her... physical or otherwise. This is no different."

_"Is that concern I hear, mercenary? A dangerous sentiment in your line of work."_

"Do **_not_** mock me," he curses under his breath at his sudden intake of volume, hoping it doesn't disturb her in the next room. "If your contact isn't here by Monday, I will take her through the borders myself. We are running out of time, and we cannot allow another Kuzema incident to occur."

_"Careful, mercenary. I do not respond kindly to threats—abide by the plan, and you will receive your dues. Inform me regularly of her condition, and if it concerns you so, then we can alter our course of action for her benefit. We will keep the KGB at bay, but the Americans are yours to deal with as you please. Do not disappoint me—we both know what fate awaits those who disappoint **him**."_

_I can only imagine,_ is the immediate, biting response that comes to mind, going unsaid for the sake of pleasantries.

"You've still neglected to inform me of what will happen to her, once we arrive." Ashes his cigarette after a final, tentative drag, smoke billowing through his lips and nose.

_"There is no 'we', mercenary. You will depart upon payment, and she will arrive alone. That was our agreement."_

.... Not how he was told.

Old man was adamant, _insistent_ that Aguilar does not leave her side, by any means. His condition is either a hair's breadth away from death, or one step closer to rejuvenation. Regardless of such possible outcomes, his instructions are clear: do not leave her side. A masked Soviet bastard with one less eye isn't going to change his course of action, no matter what unsaid agreement was established—an agreement he was made unaware of, evidently.

_"You did not truly believe we have a need for men of your calibre, did you, mercenary? Nyet. I have my orders, and your presence was not one of them. You will deliver her to my contact, you will receive your payment, and you will part ways. Failure to comply will result in your immediate demise."_

"Careful, _soldado._ I've heard such threats before, from the mouths of capitalists, soldiers and politicians. I've gladly taken their tongues out for less."

_"I am no soldier. You will take care to remember that, mercenary. до свидания."_

The line clicks dead, static replacing the silence. He sighs, a defeated and harsh sound, setting it back onto his nightstand, taking two fingers and snuffing out the light from his lamp, plunging into sudden, welcoming darkness. He'll ruminate over such intricacies when sleep isn't ebbing at the corners of his vision.

Before he rests, he gets up (Pelington in-hand, strap pulled taut across his shoulder), makes way for Bell's room, wakes her for night watch.

Of course, his apparent disdain doesn't go unnoticed, although her hand on his wrist is what catches him off-guard, staring down into sepia eyes filled with concern.

"Are you okay?"

_Oh, he should be asking her that, but he doesn't._

Simply mulls over her words just so, until he musters up a simple nod and a factitious smile to go with it.

 _Yes,_ he lies to her, bidding her goodnight and relegating himself to the company of dark corners, heavy rain against panes of glass, and thin, grey sheets.

_Something alarming and harrowing is happening to her, and he intends to find out what it is._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i probably screwed up on the fighting aspects, but i tried my best lol if there's any inaccuracies, i blame google and my lack of knowledge aha sorry for the wait on this one, but i plan on directing my attention towards this fic instead of my other wip within the next few weeks, at least until there's an update for cold war and we find out if one mr adler is dead or not lol
> 
> (also definitely am gonna come back and edit some of this, i wrote it on two hours of sleep, and yeah, that line about 'green in the blue of your eyes' was totally taken from captain america: civil war, i couldn't help but include it)
> 
> i hope you enjoy, and i'll see you around :)


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